7 


The  Later  Life 


THE  LATER  LIFE 


BY 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Author  of  "Small  Souls,"  "Footsteps  of  Fate,"  etc. 


TRANSLATED  BT 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

The  Later  Life  is  the  second  of  The  Books  of  the 
Small  Souls,  following  immediately  upon  Small  Souls, 
the  novel  that  gives  the  title  to  the  series.  In  the 
present  story,  Couperus  reverts,  at  times  and  in  a 
measure,  to  that  earlier,  "  sensitivist "  method 
which  he  abandoned  almost  wholly  in  Small  Souls 
and  which  he  again  abandons  in  The  Twilight  of 
the  Souls  and  in  Dr.  Adriaan,  the  third  and  fourth 
novels  of  the  series. 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS. 

CHELSEA, 
22  March,  1914. 


The  Later  Life 


CHAPTER  I 

VAN  DER  WELCKE  woke  that  morning  from  a  long, 
sound  sleep  and  stretched  himself  luxuriously  in  the 
warmth  of  the  sheets.  But  suddenly  he  remembered 
what  he  had  been  dreaming;  and,  as  he  did  so,  he 
gazed  into  the  wardrobe-glass,  in  which  he  could 
just  see  himself  from  his  pillow.  A  smile  began  to 
flicker  about  his  curly  moustache ;  his  blue  eyes  lit  up 
with  merriment.  The  sheets,  which  still  covered  his 
body  —  he  had  flung  his  arms  above  his  head  — 
rose  and  fell  with  the  ripple  of  his  silent  chuckles; 
and  suddenly,  irrepressibly,  he  burst  into  a  loud 
guffaw: 

"  Addie  1  "  he  shouted,  roaring  with  laughter. 
"  Addie,  are  you  up  ?  ...  Addie,  come  here  for  a 
minute !  " 

The  door  between  the  two  rooms  opened;  Addie 
entered. 

"  Addie !  .  .  .  Just  imagine  .  .  .  just  imagine 
what  I've  been  dreaming.  It  was  at  the  seaside  — 
Ostende  or  Scheveningen  or  somewhere  —  and  ev- 
erybody, everybody  was  going  about  .  .  .  half- 
naked  .  .  .  their  legs  bare  .  .  .  and  the  rest  beau- 
tifully dressed.  The  men  had  coloured  shirts  and 
light  jackets  and  exquisite  ties  and  straw  hats,  gloves 
and  a  stick  in  their  hands  .  .  and  the  rest  .  .  . 


2  THE  LATER  LIFE 

the  rest  was  stark  naked.  The  ladies  wore  lovely 
blouses,  magnificent  hats,  parasols  .  .  .  and  that 
was  all!  .  .  .  And  there  was  nothing  in  it,  Addie, 
really  there  was  nothing  in  it;  it  was  all  quite  natural, 
quite  proper,  quite  fashionable;  and  they  walked 
about  like  that  and  sat  on  chairs  and  listened  to  the 
music!  .  .  .  And  the  fishermen  .  .  .  the  fishermen, 
Addie,  went  about  like  that  too !  .  .  .  And  the  mu- 
sicians ...  in  the  bandstand  .  .  .  were  half- 
naked  too;  and  .  .  .  the  tails  ...  of  their  dress- 
coats  .  .  .  hung  down  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  like  that!  " 

Van  der  Welcke,  as  he  told  his  dream  in  broken 
sentences,  lay  shaking  with  laughter;  his  whole  bed 
shook,  the  sheets  rose  and  fell;  he  was  red  in  the 
face,  as  if  on  the  verge  of  choking;  he  wept  as  though 
consumed  with  grief;  he  gasped  for  breath,  threw 
the  bed-clothes  off : 

'  Just  imagine  it  ...  just  imagine  it  ...  you 
never  .  .  .  you  never  saw  such  a  stretch  of  sands 
as  that!  " 

Addie  had  begun  by  listening  with  his  usual 
serious  face ;  but,  when  he  saw  his  father  crying  and 
gasping  for  breath,  rolling  about  in  the  bed,  and 
when  the  vision  of  those  sands  became  clearer  to  his 
imagination,  he  also  was  seized  with  irresistible 
laughter.  But  he  had  one  peculiarity,  that  he  could 
not  laugh  outright,  but,  shaken  with  internal  merri- 
ment, would  laugh  in  his  stomach  without  utter- 
ing a  sound;  and  he  now  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 


THE  LATER  LIFE  3 

father's  bed,  rocking  with  silent  laughter  as  the  bed 
rocked  under  him.  He  tried  not  to  look  at  his 
father,  for,  when  he  saw  his  father's  face,  dis- 
torted and  purple  with  his  paroxysms  of  laughter, 
lying  on  the  white  pillow  like  the  mask  of  some  faun, 
he  had  to  make  agonized  clutches  at  his  stomach 
and,  bent  double,  to  try  to  laugh  outright;  and  he 
couldn't,  he  couldn't. 

"  Doesn't  it  ...  doesn't  it  ...  strike  you  as 
funny?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke,  hearing  no  sound 
of  laughter  from  his  son. 

And  he  looked  at  Addie  and,  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  Addie  could  never  roar  with  laughter  out 
loud,  he  became  still  merrier  at  the  sight  of  his 
poor  boy's  silent  throes,  his  noiseless  stomach-laugh, 
until  his  own  laughter  rang  through  the  room,  echo- 
ing back  from  the  walls,  filling  the  whole  room  with 
loud  Homeric  mirth. 

"  Oh,  Father,  stop !  "  said  Addie  at  last,  a  little 
relieved  by  his  internal  paroxysms,  the  tears  stream- 
ing in  wet  streaks  down  his  face. 

And  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  despair  that  he  could  not 
laugh  like  his  father. 

"  Give  me  a  pencil  and  paper,"  said  Van  der 
Welcke,  "  and  I'll  draw  you  my  dream." 

But  Addie  was  very  severe  and  shocked: 

"No,  Father,  that  won't  do!  That'll  never 
do.  .  .  .  it'd  be  a  vulgar  drawing!  " 

And  his  son's  chaste  seriousness  worked  to  such 


4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

an  extent  upon  Van  der  Welcke's  easily  tickled 
nerves  that  he  began  roaring  once  more  at  Addie's 
indignation  .  .  . 

Truitje  was  prowling  about  the  passage,  knock- 
ing at  all  the  doors,  not  knowing  where  Addie  was : 

"  Are  you  up,  Master  Addie?  " 

"  Yes,"  cried  Addie.     "  Wait  a  minute." 

He  went  to  the  door: 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  telegram  .  .  .  from  the  mistress,  I  ex- 
pect .  .  ." 

"  Here." 

He  took  the  telegram,  shut  the  door  again. 

"  From  Mamma?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  Sure   to   be.     Yes,    from    Paris :     '  J' arrive  ce 


soir.' " 


Van  der  Welcke  grew  serious: 

"  And  high  time  too.  What  business  had 
Mamma  to  go  rushing  abroad  like  that?  .  .  . 
One'd  think  we  were  well  off  ...  What  did  you  do 
about  those  bills,  Addie?  " 

"  I  went  to  the  shops  and  said  that  mevrouw  was 
out  of  town  and  that  they'd  have  to  wait." 

"  I  see.  That's  all  right  .  .  .  Can  you  meet 
Mamma  at  the  station?  " 

"  Yes.  The  train's  due  at  six  ...  Then  we'll 
have  dinner  afterwards,  with  Mamma." 

"  I  don't  know  ...  I  think  I'd  better  dine  at  the 
club." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  5 

"  Come,  Father,  don't  be  silly!  " 

"  No,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  crossly,  "  don't 
bother  me.  I'll  stay  on  at  the  Witte." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  means  starting  off  with  a 
manifestation?  Whereas,  if  you  wait  in  for 
Mamma  peacefully  and  we  all  have  dinner  together, 
then  things'll  come  right  of  themselves.  That'll  be 
much  easier  than  if  you  go  staying  out  at  once: 
Mamma  would  only  think  it  rude." 

"Rude?  .  .  .  Rude?  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  to  flare  up  about !  And 
you  just  come  home  to  dinner.  Then  you'll  be  on 
the  right  side." 

"  I'll  think  it  over.  If  I  don't  look  out,  you'll  be 
bossing  me  altogether." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  mind  me,  stay  at  the  Witte." 

"  Oho!     So  you're  offended,  young  man?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  I'd  rather  you  came  home,  of  course; 
but,  if  you  prefer  to  dine  at  the  Witte,  do." 

"  Dearly-beloved  son !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke, 
throwing  out  his  hands  with  a  comical  gesture  of 
resignation.  "  Your  father  will  obey  your  sapient 
wishes." 

"  Fond  Father,  I  thank  you.  But  I  must  be  off 
to  school  now." 

"  Good-bye,  then  .  .  .  and  you'd  better  forget 
those  sands." 

They  both  exploded  and  Addie  hurried  away  and 
vanished,  shaking  with  his  painful  stomach-laugh, 


6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

while  he  heard  Van  der  Welcke  break  into  a  fresh 
guffaw : 

"  He  can  laugh !  "  thought  the  boy. 


CHAPTER  II 

VAN  DER  WELCKE  had  dressed  and  breakfasted 
and,  because  he  felt  bored,  took  his  bicycle  and 
went  for  a  long  ride  by  himself.  He  was  very 
often  bored  these  days,  now  that  Addie  was  work- 
ing hard  at  the  grammar-school.  Without  his 
boy,  he  seemed  at  once  to  have  nothing  to  do,  no 
object  in  life;  he  could  see  no  reason  for  his  exist- 
ence. He  would  smoke  endless  cigarettes  in  his 
den,  or  go  jbicycling,  or  turn  up  once  in  a  way  at 
the  Plaats,  once  in  a  way  at  the  Witte;  but  he  did 
not  go  to  either  of  his  clubs  as  often  as  he  used  to. 
He  saw  much  less  of  his  friends,  his  friends  of 
former  days,  the  men  of  birth  and  position  who 
had  all  won  fame  in  their  respective  spheres,  though 
Van  Vreeswijck  continued  his  visits  regularly,  ap- 
preciating the  cosy  little  dinners.  Van  der  Welcke 
generally  felt  lonely  and  stranded,  found  his  own 
company  more  and  more  boring  from  day  to  day; 
and  it  was  only  when  he  saw  his  boy  come  back  from 
school  that  he  cheered  up,  enjoyed  life,  was  glad 
and  lively  as  a  child. 

He  loved  the  quick  movement  of  it;  and  he  cycled 
and  cycled  along  the  lonely,  chill,  windy  country- 
roads,  aiming  at  no  destination,  just  pedalling  away 
for  the  sake  of  speed,  for  the  sake  of  covering  the 

7 


8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ground.  If  he  were  only  rich:  then  he'd  have  a 
motor-car!  There  was  nothing  like  a  motor-car! 
A  motor-car  made  up  for  this  rotten,  stodgy,  boring 
life.  To  rush  along  the  smooth  roads  in  your  car, 
to  let  her  rip :  tock,  tock,  tock,  tock,  tock-tock-tock- 
tock !  Ha  I  ...  Ha !  .  .  .  That  would  be  grand ! 
Suppose  his  father  were  to  make  him  a  present 
of  a  car  .  .  .  Ha!  .  .  .  Tock-tock-tock-tock !  .  .  . 
And,  as  he  spurted  along,  he  suggested  to  himself 
the  frantic  orgy  of  speed  of  a  puffing,  snorting  motor- 
car, the  acrid  stench  of  its  petrol-fumes,  the  ready 
obedience  of  the  pneumatic-tyred  wheels  while  the 
car  flew  through  the  dust  like  a  storm-chariot  over 
the  clouds.  It  made  him  poetic  —  tock-tock-tock- 
tock,  tock-tock-tock-tock  —  but,  as  long  as  his  father 
lived,  he  would  never  have  enough  money  to  buy 
himself  a  decent  car ! 

Life  was  stodgy,  rotten,  boring  ...  If  only 
Addie  had  finished  school !  But  then  .  .  .  then  he 
would  have  to  go  to  the  university  .  .  .  and  into 
the  diplomatic  service  .  .  .  No,  no,  the  older  his 
boy  grew,  the  less  he  would  see  of  him  .  .  .  How 
wretched  it  all  was :  he  did  not  know  whether  to  wish 
that  Addie  was  older  or  not!  ...  To  think,  it 
wasn't  a  year  ago  since  the  child  used  to  sit  on  his 
knee,  with  his  cheek  against  his  father's,  his  arm 
round  his  father's  neck;  and  Van  der  Welcke  would 
feel  that  slight  and  yet  sturdy  frame  against  his 
heart;  and  now  .  .  .  now  already  he  was  a  lad,  a 


THE  LATER  LIFE  9 

chap  with  a  deep  voice,  who  ruled  his  father  with  a 
rod  of  iron !  Yes,  Van  der  Welcke  was  simply  ruled 
by  him:  there  was  no  getting  away  from  it!  Sup- 
pose he  wanted  to  stay  and  dine  at  the  Witte  that 
night:  why  the  blazes  shouldn't  he?  And  he  knew 
as  sure  as  anything  that  he  wouldn't!  He  would 
come  home  like  a  good  little  boy,  because  Addie  had 
rather  he  did,  because  otherwise  Addie  would  look 
upon  it  as  a  manifestation  against  Constance  .  .  . 
She  too  was  coming  back,  after  Addie  had  written 
that  it  really  wouldn't  do,  financially.  She  had  run 
away  like  a  madwoman,  two  months  ago,  after  that 
pleasant  business  at  the  last  Sunday-evening  which 
they  had  spent  at  Mamma  van  Lowe's,  after  the 
furious  scene  which  she  had  made  him,  Van  der 
Welcke,  because  he  wanted  to  hit  their  brother-in- 
law,  Van  Naghel,  in  the  face.  Mind,  it  was  for 
her,  for  his  wife's  sake,  that  he  wanted  to  hit  Van 
Naghel  in  the  face.  For  her  sake,  because  that 
pompous  ass  had  dared  to  say  that  he  wasn't  keen  on 
Constance  calling  on  Bertha's  at-home  day  .  .  .  but 
that  in  other  respects  they  were  brothers  and  sisters ! 
The  disgusting  snob !  That  old  woman,  that  non- 
entity, that  rotter,  that  twopenny-halfpenny  cabinet- 
minister,  who  had  got  on  simply  because  old  Van 
Lowe,  in  his  day,  had  kicked  him  upstairs  step  by 
step !  .  .  .  Van  der  Welcke  was  still  furious  when 
he  thought  of  the  fellow,  with  his  smooth  face  and 
his  namby-pamby  speeches.  He  hadn't  been  able  to 


io  THE  LATER  LIFE 

control  himself  that  time :  his  wife,  at  any  rate,  was 
his  wife;  his  wife  was  Baroness  van  der  Welcke; 
and  he  couldn't  stand  it,  that  they  should  insult  his 
wife  and  before  his  face  too;  and,  if  Paul  had  not 
prevented  him,  he  would  have  struck  the  snobbish 
ass  in  the  face,  thrashed  him,  thrashed  him,  thrashed 
him!  His  blood  still  boiled  at  the  thought  of  it 
.  .  .  Well,  there  it  was!  Paul  had  held  him 
back  .  .  .  but  still,  he  would  have  liked  to  chal- 
lenge the  fellow,  to  have  fought  a  duel  with  him !  .  .  . 
He  grinned  —  pedalling  like  mad,  bending  over 
like  a  record-breaker  at  the  last  lap  of  a  bicycle- 
race  —  he  grinned  now  when  he  thought  of  the  de- 
spair of  the  whole  family,  because  their  revered 
brother-in-law  Van  Naghel,  "  his  excellency,"  whom 
they  all  looked  up  to  with  such  reverence,  might  have 
to  fight  a  duel  with  a  brother-in-law  who  was  already 
viewed  with  sufficient  disfavour  at  the  Hague! 
.  .  .  Well,  it  hadn't  come  off.  They  had  all  inter- 
fered; but  it  wasn't  for  that  reason,  but  because  dear 
old  Mamma  van  Lowe  had  taken  to  her  bed  —  and 
also  for  Addie's  sake  —  that  he  had  not  insisted  on 
the  duel.  Yes,  those  Dutchmen :  they  never  wanted 
to  fight  if  they  could  help  it !  He,  Van  der  Welcke, 
would  have  liked  to  fight,  though  Van  Naghel  had 
been  a  thousand  times  his  brother-in-law,  a  thousand 
times  colonial  secretary.  And  it  wasn't  only  that 
the  whole  family  had  thought  the  very  idea  of  a 
duel  so  dreadful;  but  his  wise  son  had  interfered, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  n 

had  taken  up  a  very  severe  attitude  to  his  father,  had 
reproached  him  because  he  —  still  "  a  young  man," 
as  Addie  put  it  in  his  amusing  way  —  wanted  to  in- 
sult and  strike  a  man  of  Uncle  van  Naghel's  age, 
even  though  it  was  for  Mamma's  sake !  And  Addie 
had  gone  to  Frans  van  Naghel,  the  eldest  son,  the 
undergraduate,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond;  and 
Frans  was  furious,  wanted  to  take  his  father's  place 
and  fight  in  his  stead.  But  Addie  had  said  that 
Papa  was  in  the  wrong,  that  Papa  had  lost  his  self- 
control;  and  he  had  calmed  Frans  and  told  him,  his 
father,  positively,  that  it  was  his,  Van  der  Welcke's, 
duty  to  apologize  to  Uncle  van  Naghel !  That  boy, 
that  boy,  thought  Van  der  Welcke,  thinking  half- 
angrily  of  his  son's  perpetual  tutelage.  It  was  really 
too  silly:  if  he  didn't  look  out,  the  brat  would 
twist  him  round  his  little  finger  entirely.  A  little 
chap  like  that,  a  schoolboy  of  fourteen  .  .  .  and 
yet  the  beggar  had  managed  so  that  Frans  did  not 
challenge  Van  der  Welcke  and  that  Van  der  Welcke 
had  sent  Van  Naghel  a  note  of  apology,  a  note  the 
thought  of  which  made  him  boil  even  now,  made  him 
rant  and  curse  at  the  thought  that  he  had  let  him- 
self be  persuaded  by  the  fourteen-year-old  school- 
boy. And  then  he  had  had  to  express  his  regret  to 
Mamma  van  Lowe  into  the  bargain;  but  that  he 
didn't  mind,  for  she  was  an  old  dear  and  he  thought 
it  too  bad  that  the  wretched  affair  should  have  made 
her  ill.  And  so  the  fourteen-year-old  schoolboy 


12  THE  LATER  LIFE 

had  succeeded  in  hushing  up  a  Hague  scandal,  just 
like  a  grown-up  man  .  .  .  When  you  came  to 
think  of  it,  it  was  simply  absurd,  incredible;  you 
would  never  have  believed  it  if  you  read  it  in  a  book; 
and  it  was  the  positive  truth:  the  schoolboy  had 
prevented  the  cabinet-minister  or  his  son  from  fighting 
a  duel  with  the  schoolboy's  father!  .  .  .  And 
now  Van  der  Welcke  had  to  choke  with  laughter  at 
the  thought  of  it;  and,  as  he  spurted  along  the  roads, 
like  a  professional,  with  his  back  bent  into  an  arch, 
he  roared  with  laughter  all  by  himself  and  thought: 

"  Lord,  what  an  extraordinary  beggar  he  is!  " 

But  the  boy's  mother,  after  scene  upon  scene  with 
him,  the  father;  his  mother,  furious  that  her  hus- 
band should  have  dared  to  raise  his  hand  against 
that  revered  brother-in-law,  "  his  excellency;"  his 
mother,  driven  out  of  her  senses,  with  every  nerve 
on  edge  after  all  that  she  had  had  to  endure  that 
Sunday:  his  mother  the  boy  had  not  been  able  to 
restrain;  a  woman  is  always  more  difficult  to  manage 
than  a  man;  a  mother  is  not  half  so  easy  as  a  father! 
Constance,  after  one  of  those  scenes  which  followed 
one  upon  the  other  as  long  as  the  atmosphere  re- 
mained charged  with  electricity,  had  said: 

"I'm  sick  of  it  all;  I'm  going  away;  I'm  going 
abroad!" 

And  even  the  fact  that  she  was  leaving  her  son  be- 
hind her  did  not  bring  her  to  reason.  She  packed  her 
trunks,  told  Truitje  to  keep  house  for  the  master 


THE  LATER  LIFE  13 

and  Master  Addle  as  she  herself  used  to  and  went 
away,  almost  insolently,  hardly  even  saying  good- 
bye to  Addie.  .  .  .  They  thought  at  first  that  she 
would  do  something  rash,  goodness  knows  what, 
and  were  anxious  because  they  didn't  know  where 
Constance  had  gone;  but  the  next  day  there  was  a 
telegram  from  Paris  to  reassure  them,  telling  them 
that  Constance  was  going  to  Nice  and  meant  to  stay 
some  time.  Then  letters  came  from  Nice  and  they 
had  no  more  fears,  nor  had  Mamma  van  Lowe; 
they  all  thought  the  change  might  even  do  her  good; 
and  she  continued  pretty  sensible.  She  wrote  to 
her  mother,  to  Addie;  she  wrote  to  Truitje,  impress- 
ing upon  her  to  look  after  the  house  well  and  after 
the  master  and  Master  Addie  and  to  see  that  every- 
thing was  going  on  all  right  when  her  mistress  re- 
turned. And  this  sensible,  housewifely  letter  had 
done  more  than  anything  to  reassure  Mamma  van 
Lowe  and  the  two  of  them;  and  now  they  didn't 
grudge  Constance,  Mamma,  her  trip,  for  once  in  a 
way.  But  it  was  an  expensive  amusement.  Con- 
stance, it  was  true,  had  taken  some  money  of  her  own 
with  her;  but  still,  since  they  had  come  to  the  Hague, 
Van  der  Welcke  no  longer  made  anything  out  of 
wine-  and  insurance-commissions;  he  was  no  longer 
an  agent  for  the  Brussels  firms;  and  they  had  not 
much  to  live  on  and  had  to  be  very  economical. 
And  so  Van  der  Welcke,  after  seven  weeks  had 
passed,  was  obliged  to  tell  Addie  that  it  wouldn't 


i4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

do  for  Mamma  to  stay  on  at  Nice,  in  an  expensive 
hotel,  and  that  he  had  better  write  to  her.  And 
the  schoolboy  had  written  asking  his  mother  to  come 
back  now,  telling  his  mother  that  that  would  have 
to  do  and  that  there  was  no  money  left.  And  Con- 
stance was  coming  home  that  evening. 

Van  der  Welcke  was  in  good  spirits  all  day,  per- 
haps through  the  after-effects  of  his  dream  —  he 
kept  seeing  those  sands  before  his  eyes  —  and, 
pedalling  along  like  mad,  he  sat  shaking  in  his  sad- 
dle, thinking  of  that  young  scamp  of  his,  who  ruled 
over  his  father  and  mother.  It  wasn't  right,  it 
was  too  absurd,  soon  they  would  neither  of  them  be 
able  to  call  their  souls  their  own;  but  the  boy  was 
so  sensible  and  he  was  always  the  little  peacemaker, 
who  settled  everything.  Yes,  the  scamp  was  the 
joy  of  his  life;  and  really,  really,  except  for  the  boy, 
everything  was  unrelieved  gloom  ...  If  only  he 
could  buy  a  motor-car,  or  at  least  a  motor-cycle.  He 
must  find  out  one  day,  just  ask  what  a  motor-cycle 
cost  .  .  .  But,  apart  from  that,  what  was  there? 
Especially  now  that  they  two  —  Constance  in  par- 
ticular —  had  wanted  at  all  costs  to  "  rehabilitate  " 
themselves,  as  Constance  called  it,  in  Hague  society 
and  now  that  they  had  failed  utterly  through  that 
scene  with  Van  Naghel,  things  were  stodgier 
than  ever  .  .  .  with  no  one  to  come  and  see  them 
but  Van  Vreeswijck,  with  no  outside  interests  what- 
ever. It  was  his  fault,  his  fault,  his  wife  kept  re- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  15, 

preaching  him  in  their  scenes,  almost  with  enjoy- 
ment, revelling  in  her  revenge,  because  he,  not  long 
ago,  had  reproached  her  that  it  was  her  fault,  her 
fault  that  they  were  buried  away  there,  "  cursing 
their  luck  in  the  Kerkhoflaan."  And  he  was  sorry 
too  because  of  Marianne:  she  used  to  come  and  dine 
once  in  a  way;  when  Van  Vreeswijck  was  coming, 
Constance  would  ask  either  Paul  or  Marianne,  to 
make  four;  and,  now  that  he  had  insulted  her  father, 
she  wouldn't  come  again,  they  were  on  unfriendly 
terms  not  only  with  the  parents,  but  also  with  the 
daughter  .  .  .  and  with  the  sons,  to  the  great  re- 
gret of  Addie,  who  was  very  fond  of  Frans  and 
Henri  .  .  .  His  fault!  His  fault  I  Perhaps  it 
was  his  fault,  but  he  couldn't  always  restrain  him- 
self, control  himself,  master  himself.  Possibly,  if 
he  had  stuck  to  his  career,  he  would  have  learnt  to 
do  it,  after  his  training  in  diplomatic  reserve  ...  or 
else  he  would  always  have  remained  an  indifferent 
diplomatist.  That  might  have  happened  too;  it 
was  quite  possible!  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  sorry  .  .  . 
because  of  Marianne.  She  was  a  nice  girl,  so  nat- 
ural, so  unaffected,  in  spite  of  her  worldly  environ- 
ment; and  he  liked  her  eyes,  her  voice.  He  was 
sorry  .  .  .  because  of  Marianne;  but  it  couldn't  be 
helped:  although  he  had  written  to  her  father,  she 
would  not  come  to  the  house  again,  she  would  never 
come  again,  he  thought. 

And  he  almost  sighed,  sadly,  he  did  not  know 


1 6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

why,  no  doubt  because  life  would  be  still  more 
stodgy  without  Marianne's  eyes  and  voice.  But, 
after  all,  it  was  only  once  every  four  or  five  weeks 
that  she  used  to  come  and  dine ;  so  what  did  it  really 
matter?  What  did  it  matter?  No,  really  nothing 
mattered;  really,  the  whole  world  was  a  sickening, 
stodgy  business,  rottenly  managed  .  .  .  Oh,  if  he 
could  only  have  bought  a  motor  1  The  longing  was 
so  intense,  so  violent  that  he  was  almost  tempted  to 
ask  his  father  for  one  straight  out.  And  now, 
while  he  spurted  home  after  his  long  ride,  he 
hummed  between  his  teeth,  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
flying  wheels,  a  song  which  he  suddenly  made  up  for 
himself : 

"  A  motor-car  —  and  a  motor-car :  Ottocar  in  a 
motor-car  —  Ottocar  in  a  motor-carl  " 

And  burning  with  his  longing  for  the  unattain- 
able, he  pedalled  away  —  Ottocar  in  a  motor-car !  — 
in  a  mad  frenzy,  delighting  in  the  sheer  speed  of  his 
ride,  which  made  people  turn  round  and  stare  at 
him,  at  his  arched  back  and  his  piston-legs,  like  an 
automaton's  .  .  . 

He  came  home  very  late,  just  as  Addle  was  start- 
ing to  go  to  the  station. 

"  I  really  thought,  Daddy,  that  you  were  staying 
at  the  Witte  after  all!  "  said  the  boy.  "  You're  so 
late!" 

"  No,  old  chap,  I  wouldn't  have  dared  do  that!  " 
cried  Van  der  Welcke.  "  Ottocar  —  in  a  motor- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  17 

car!  I've  been  cycling  my  legs  off  and  I'm  tired 
out." 

"  You're  quite  red  in  the  face." 

"Yes,  I've  had  great  fun!  Ottocar  —  in  his 
motor-car!  You  see,  I've  got  to  have  my  fun  by 
myself  .  .  .  when  you're  cooped  up  at  school." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Father,  about  Ottocar?  " 

"Nothing,  nothing,  it's  a  song:  Ottocar  in  his 
motor-car!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I'm  off  ...  to  meet  Mamma.  Good- 
bye, you  mad  old  Dad!  " 

"  Good-bye,  my  boy  .  .  .  Come  here  a  mo- 
ment .  .  ." 

"What's  the  matter  now?  .  .  ." 

"  Old  chap,  I  feel  so  lonely  sometimes  ...  so 
terribly  alone  ...  so  forlorn  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Ad- 
die,  you'll  always  be  your  father's  chum,  won't 
you?  .  .  .  You  won't  leave  me,  like  all  the  rest? 
You'll  stay  with  your  old  father?" 

"  But,  Daddy,  what  makes  you  so  sentimental 
suddenly?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  sentimental  .  .  .  but,  my  dear 
boy,  I'm  so  awfully  bored  sometimes !  " 

"  Then  why  don't  you  find  more  to  do,  Daddy?  " 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  what  would  you  have  me  do?  .  .  . 
Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  car!  " 

"A  car?  .  .  ." 

"  A  motor-car !     Like  Ottocar !  " 

And  Van  der  Welcke  burst  out  laughing: 


1 8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  He  at  least  had  one !  "  he  bellowed,  amidst  his 
laughter. 

"  Father,  you're  mad !  " 

*  Yes,  to-day  .  .  .  because  of  that  dream,  those 
wonderful  sands  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  Ot- 
tocar !  .  .  .  My  boy,  my  boy,  I'm  so  terribly  bored 
sometimes !  " 

"  And  just  after  you've  had  a  jolly  bicycle-ride !  " 

"  All  on  my  own  .  .  .  with  my  head  full  of  all 
sorts  of  wretched  thoughts!  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  to-morrow,  Wednesday  afternoon,  we'll 
go  together." 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  A  long  ride?  To-morrow? 
To-morrow?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,  a  long  ride." 

"  You  brick !  My  own  Addie !  My  boy !  My 
boy!" 

He  was  as  grateful  as  a  child,  caught  his  son  in 
his  arms: 

"  Addie,  let  me  give  you  one  more  hug!  " 

11  Well,  be  quick  about  it,  Father,  for  I  must 
really  go,  or  I  shall  be  late." 

Van  der  Welcke  put  his  arms  round  him,  kissed 
him  on  both  cheeks  and  flew  upstairs.  He  un- 
dressed, flung  his  clothes  to  right  and  left,  washed 
his  face  in  a  huge  basin  of  water,  shaved  quickly, 
dressed  himself  neatly.  He  did  all  this  with  much 
fuss  and  rushing  about,  as  though  his  toilet  was  a 
most  important  affair.  Then  he  went  downstairs. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  19 

The  table  was  laid.  It  was  nearly  seven.  Con- 
stance would  be  there  in  no  time.  And,  sitting 
down  in  the  drawing-room  with  a  cigarette,  looking 
round  the  room  —  Constance'  room  all  over,  in 
which  he  sat  as  a  stranger  —  he  hummed,  while  he 
waited  for  his  wife  and  his  son: 

"  And  Ottocar  had  a  motor-car;  but  I  —  have  — 
none!  . 


CHAPTER  III 

ADDIE  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  platform  just  as  the 
train  from  Paris  steamed  in.  He  hurried  along, 
looking  into  the  windows  .  .  .  There  was  Mamma, 
there  was  Mamma!  And  he  flung  himself  on  the 
handle,  pulled  open  the  door,  helped  Constance  to 
alight. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "There  you  are!  There  you 
are  at  last!  " 

She  laughed,  kissed  him,  her  handsome,  sturdy 
boy: 

"  My  boy,  how  could  I  do  so  long  without  you?  " 

"  Ah,  so  you  see !  You're  surprised  at  it  your- 
self! Come,  make  haste,  I've  got  a  cab.  Give 
me  your  luggage-ticket." 

He  swept  her  along;  and,  in  the  cab,  while  they 
were  waiting  for  the  luggage : 

"  Tell  me,  Addie,"  she  said,  "  is  there  really  no 
money  left?  " 

"  Do  you  imagine  that,  when  you  go  spending 
seven  weeks  at  Nice,  in  a  first-class  hotel,  there'll 
still  be  money?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  like  that,"  she  said  meekly. 

He  laughed,  thought  her  tremendously  amusing. 
She  laughed  too,  they  both  bubbled  with  mirth, 

20 


THE  LATER  LIFE  21 

Constance  glad  at  seeing  him,  at  finding  him  look- 
ing so  well  and  in  such  good  spirits. 

"  Mamma,  you're  hopeless  1 "  he  exclaimed. 
11  Did  you  really  never  think  that  there  was  no 
money  left?  " 

"  No,"  said  Constance,  humbly. 

And  they  both  started  laughing  again.  He  shook 
his  head,  considered  her  incorrigible: 

"  And  I've  got  some  bills  too,  for  the  things  you 
bought  when  you  went  away." 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  she  said,  remembering.  "  But  they 
can  wait." 

"  I  told  them  that  you  were  abroad  and  that 
they'd  have  to  wait." 

"  Of  course,"  said  she. 

And  they  arrived  in  the  Kerkhoflaan  in  excellent 
spirits. 

''  Well,  Truitje,  have  you  looked  after  the  master 
and  Master  Addie  nicely?  " 

"  I  did  the  best  I  could,  ma'am  .  .  .  But  it's 
just  as  well  you're  back  again  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Constance?" 

"Well,  Henri?" 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You're  looking  well." 

'  Thanks.  .  .  .  Oh,  have  you  waited  dinner  for 
me?" 

"Well,  of  course!" 


22  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  I'll  go  and  wash  my  hands  and  I'll  be  down 
immediately." 

"  Mamma  never  thought  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
that  there  was  no  money  left,"  said  Addie. 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

But  he  seemed  to  consider  it  quite  natural;  and, 
when  Constance  came  downstairs,  he  said,  laughing: 

"  Didn't  you  think  that  there  was  no  money 
left?" 

Constance  glanced  up,  imagining  that  he  meant  to 
make  a  scene.  But  he  was  smiling;  and  his  question 
sounded  good-humoured. 

"  No!  "  she  said,  as  if  it  was  only  natural. 

And  now  they  all  went  into  fits  of  laughter,  Addie 
with  his  silent  convulsions,  which  made  him  shake 
up  and  down  painfully. 

"  Do  laugh  right  out,  boy!"  said  Van  der 
Welcke,  teasing  him.  "  Do  laugh  right  out,  if  you 


can." 


They  were  very  gay  as  they  sat  down  to  dinner. 

"  And  just  guess,"  said  Constance,  "  whom  I  met 
in  the  hotel  at  Nice,  whom  I  sat  next  to  at  the  table 
d'hote:  the  d'Azignys,  from  Rome  .  .  .  The  first 
people  I  met,  the  d'Azignys.  It's  incredible  how 
small  the  world  is,  how  small,  how  small !  " 

He  also  remembered  the  d'Azignys:  the  French 
ambassador  at  Rome  and  his  wife  .  .  .  fifteen  years 
ago  now  .  .  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  23 

"  Really?  "  he  asked,  greatly  interested.  "  Were 
they  all  right?" 

"  Oh,  quite,"  she  said,  "  quite !  I  remembered 
them  at  once,  but  didn't  bow.  But  d'Azigny  was 
very  polite;  and,  after  a  minute  or  two,  he  spoke 
to  me,  asked  if  he  wasn't  right  in  thinking  I  was  the 
Baronne  de  Staffelaer.  '  Baronne  van  der  Welcke,' 
I  replied.  He  flushed  up  and  his  wife  nudged  him, 
but  after  that  they  were  very  charming  and  amiable 
all  the  time  I  was  at  Nice.  I  saw  a  lot  of  them  and, 
through  their  introduction,  I  went  to  a  splendid  ball 
at  the  Due  de  Rivoli's.  I  enjoyed  it  thoroughly. 
I  wore  a  beautiful  dress,  I  was  in  my  element  once 
more,  I  was  a  foreigner,  everybody  was  very  pleas- 
ant and  I  felt  light-hearted  again,  quit  of  everything 
and  everybody,  and  I  thought  to  myself  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  did  you  think?" 

"  Oh,  if  only  we  had  never  gone  back  to  Holland ! 
If,  when  Brussels  became  so  dull,  we  had  just  moved 
to  a  town  like  Nice.  It's  delightful  there.  As  a 
foreigner,  you  need  have  nothing  to  trouble  about, 
you  can  do  just  as  you  like,  know  just  whom  you 
please.  You  feel  so  free,  so  free  .  .  .  And  why, 
I  thought,  must  Addie  become  and  remain  a  Dutch- 
man? He  could  just  as  well  be  a  Frenchman  .  .  . 
or  a  cosmopolitan.  .  .  ." 

'  Thank  you,  Mamma :  I  don't  feel  like  being  a 
Frenchman,  nor  yet  a  cosmopolitan.  And  you'd 


24  THE  LATER  LIFE 

better  not  say  that  to  Uncle  Gerrit,  or  you  can  look 
out  for  squalls." 

"  Addle,  I've  met  with  so  many  squalls  in  my  dear 
Holland  that  I  feel  like  blowing  away  myself,  away 
from  everybody  .  .  ." 

"  Including  your  son?  " 

"  No,  my  boy.  I  missed  you.  I  thought  of  you 
every  day.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again.  But  I 
did  think  to  myself  that  we  should  have  done  better 
never  to  come  back  to  Holland." 

"  Yes,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  thoughtfully. 

"  We  could  have  lived  at  Nice,  if  we  liked." 

"Yes,"  Van  der  Welcke  admitted,  a  little  du- 
biously, "  but  you  were  longing  for  your  family." 

She  clenched  her  little  hand  and  struck  the  table 
with  it: 

"  And  you !  "  she  cried.  "  Didn't  you  long  for 
your  parents,  for  your  country?  " 

"  But  not  so  much  as  you  did." 

"  And  who  thought  it  necessary  for  Addle  ?  I 
didn't!  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  shrill  voice.  "  I  didn't 
for  a  moment !  It  was  you !  " 

"  Oh,  d ,"  said  Addle,  almost  breaking  into  an 

oath.  "  My  dearest  parents,  for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  begin  quarrelling  at  once,  for  I  assure  the  two 
of  you  that,  if  you  do,  I'll  blow  away  and  /'//  go  to 
Nice  .  .  .  money  or  no  money!  " 

Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance  gave  one  roar 
and  Addie  joined  in  the  laugh. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  25 

"  Oh,  that  boy !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke,  choking 
with  merriment.  '  That  boy!  " 

Constance  uttered  a  deep  sigh: 

"Oh,  Addie!"  she  said.  "Mamma  does  and 
says  such  strange  things,  sometimes  .  .  .  but  she 
doesn't  mean  them  a  bit.  She's  really  glad  to  be 
back  again,  in  her  horrid  country  .  .  .  and  in  her 
own  home,  her  dear  cosy  home  .  .  .  and  with  her 
son,  her  darling  boy!" 

And,  throwing  her  arm  round  his  neck,  she  let 
her  head  fall  on  his  breast  and  she  sobbed,  sobbed 
aloud,  so  that  Truitje,  entering  the  room,  started, 
but  then,  accustomed  to  these  perpetual,  inevitable 
scenes,  quietly  went  on  laying  the  dessert-plates. 

Van  der  Welcke  fiddled  with  his  knife. 

"  Why  can't  those  two  manage  to  get  on  better 
together?"  thought  Addie,  sadly,  while  he  com- 
forted his  mother  and  gently  patted  her  shoul- 
der .  .  . 


"  AND  shall  Mamma  show  you  what  she  looked  like 
at  the  Due  de  Rivoli's?  " 

Dinner  was  over  and  she  was  sitting  by  her  open 
trunk,  while  Truitje  helped  her  unpack  and  put  the 
things  away. 

"  I  had  my  photograph  taken  at  Nice.  But  first 
here's  a  work-box  for  Truitje,  with  Nice  violets  on 
it.  Look,  Truitje:  it's  palm-wood  inlaid;  a  present 
for  you.  And  here's  one  for  cook." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am !  " 

"  And  for  my  wise  son  I  hunted  all  over  Nice  for 
a  souvenir  and  found  nothing,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
bringing  you  something  not  serious  enough  for  your 
patriarchal  tastes;  and  so  I  had  myself  photo- 
graphed for  you.  There :  the  last  frivolous  portrait 
of  your  mother." 

She  took  the  photograph  from  its  envelope:  it 
showed  her  at  full-length,  standing,  in  her  ball-dress; 
a  photograph  taken  with  a  great  deal  of  artistry 
and  chic,  but  too  young,  too  much  touched  up,  with 
a  little  too  much  pose  about  the  hair,  the  fan,  the 
train. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  What  a  bundle  of  vanity  you  are,  Mamma !  " 

26 


THE  LATER  LIFE  27 

"  Don't  you  like  it?     Then  give  it  back  at  once." 

"  Why,  no,  Mummy:  I  think  it  awfully  jolly  to 
have  a  photograph  of  you  .  .  ." 

"  Of  my  last  mad  mood.  Now  your  mother  is 
really  going  to  grow  old,  my  boy.  Upon  my  word, 
I  believe  Truitje  admires  my  portrait  more  than  my 
son  does!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I  think  it's  splendid!" 

"  How  many  did  you  have  done,  Mummy?  " 

"  Six.  One  for  Granny,  one  for  Uncle  Gerrit, 
one  for  Uncle  Paul,  one  for  you,  one  for  my- 
self .  .  ." 

"  And  one  for  Papa." 

"  Oh,  Papa  owns  the  original !  " 

"  No,  give  your  husband  one." 

"  Henri !  "  she  called. 

He  came  in. 

"  Here's  a  portrait  of  your  wife." 

"Lovely!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  awfully 
good!  Thanks  very  much." 

"  Glad  you  like  it.  My  husband  and  my  hand- 
maid are  satisfied,  at  any  rate.  My  son  thinks  me 
a  bundle  of  vanity  .  .  .  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  be 
back!  .  .  .  Here's  the  ball-dress.  We'll  put  it 
away  to-morrow.  I  shall  never  wear  the  thing 
again.  A  dress  that  cost  six  hundred  francs  for  one 
wearing.  Now  we'll  be  old  again  and  economical." 

They  all  laughed,  including  Truitje. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  be  back!  .  .  .  My  own 


28  THE  LATER  LIFE 

room,  my  own  cupboards  .  .  .  Truitje,  what  did 
you  give  your  masters  to  eat?  " 

"  Well,  just  what  you  used  to,  ma'am!  .  .  ." 

"  So  it  was  all  right?     I  wasn't  missed?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  go  away  for  so  long  again, 
ma'am!  "  said  Truitje,  in  alarm. 

Constance  laughed  and  stretched  herself  out  on 
her  sofa,  glad  to  be  home.  Van  der  Welcke  left 
the  room  with  his  photograph,  Truitje  with  her 
work-box. 

"  Come  here,  Addie.  Papa  has  had  you  for 
seven  weeks.  Now  you  belong  to  me  ...  for  an 
indefinite  period." 

She  drew  him  down  beside  her,  took  his  hands. 
It  struck  him  that  she  looked  tired,  more  like  her 
years,  not  like  her  photograph;  and,  his  mind 
travelling  swiftly  to  his  father,  he  thought  his  father 
so  young,  outwardly  a  young  man  and  inwardly 
sometimes  a  child :  Ottocar  in  a  motor-car  .  .  . 

"  It's  strange,  Addie,"  she  said,  softly,  "  that  you 
are  only  fourteen:  you  always  seem  to  me  at  least 
twenty.  And  I  think  it  strange  also  that  I  should 
have  such  a  big  son.  So  everything  is  strange. 
And  your  mother  herself,  my  boy,  is  the  strangest 
of  all.  If  you  ask  me  honestly  if  I  like  being  '  vain,' 
I  mean,  taking  part  in  social  frivolities,  I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  answer.  I  certainly  used  to  enjoy  it 
in  the  old  days;  and,  a  fortnight  ago,  I  admit  I 
looked  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  youth  that  comes  over 


THE  LATER  LIFE  29 

one  again;  but  really  it  all  means  nothing:  just  a 
little  brilliancy;  and  then  you  feel  so  tired  and 
empty  .  .  .  and  so  discontented  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  not  caring  to  say  more,  and 
looked  at  the  photograph,  now  lying  on  a  table  be- 
side her.  It  made  her  laugh  again;  and  at  the  same 
time  a  tear  trembled  on  her  lashes.  And  she  did 
not  know  if  it  gave  her  a  peaceful  feeling  to  be  grow- 
ing old  ...  or  if  she  regretted  it.  It  was  as 
though  the  sun  of  Nice  had  imbued  her  with  a 
strange,  dull  melancholy  which  she  herself  did  not 
understand. 

"  To  live!  "  she  thought.  "  I  have  never  lived. 
I  would  so  gladly  live  once  .  .  .  just  once.  To 
live !  But  not  like  this  ...  in  a  dress  that  cost 
six  hundred  francs.  I  know  that,  I  know  all  about 
it:  it  is  just  a  momentary  brilliancy  and  then  no- 
thing .  .  .  To  live!  I  should  like  to  live  .  .  . 
really  .  .  .  truly.  There  must  be  something.  But 
it  is  a  mad  wish.  I  am  too  old.  I  am  growing 
old,  I  am  becoming  an  old  woman  .  .  .  To  live! 
I  have  never  lived  ...  I  have  been  in  the  world, 
as  a  woman  of  the  world;  I  spoilt  that  life;  then  I 
hid  myself  ...  I  was  so  anxious  to  come  back 
to  my  country  and  my  family;  and  it  all  meant  no- 
thing but  a  little  show  and  illusion  .  .  .  and  a  great 
deal  of  disappointment.  And  so  the  days  were 
wasted,  one  after  the  other,  and  I  ...  have  .  .  . 
never  .  .  .  lived  .  .  .  Just  as  I  throw  away  my 


30  THE  LATER  LIFE 

money,  so  I  have  thrown  away  my  days.  Perhaps  I 
have  squandered  all  my  days  .  .  .  for  nothing.  Oh, 
I  oughtn't  to  feel  like  this!  What  does  it  mean 
when  I  do?  What  am  I  regretting?  What  is 
there  left  for  me?  At  Nice,  I  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment of  joining  in  that  feminine  revolt  against  ap- 
proaching age;  and  I  did  join  in  it;  and  I  succeeded. 
But  what  does  it  all  mean  and  what  is  the  use  of  it? 
It  only  means  shining  a  little  longer,  for  nothing; 
but  it  does  not  mean  living  .  .  .  But  to  long  for 
it  doesn't  mean  anything  either,  for  there  is  nothing 
for  me  now  but  to  grow  old,  in  my  home ;  and,  even 
if  I  am  not  exactly  among  my  people,  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  at  any  rate  I  have  my  mother  .  .  .  and, 
perhaps  for  quite  a  long  time  still,  my  son  too  .  .  ." 

"  Mummy  .  .  .  what  are  you  thinking  about  so 
deeply?" 

But  she  smiled,  said  nothing,  looked  earnestly  at 
him: 

"  He's  much  fonder  of  his  father,"  she  thought. 
"  I  know  it,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  must  put  up 
with  it  and  accept  what  he  gives  me." 

"  Come,  Mummy,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

"  Lots  of  things,  my  boy  .  .  .  and  perhaps  no- 
thing .  .  .  Mamma  feels  so  lonely  .  .  .  with  no 
one  about  her  .  .  .  except  you  .  .  ." 

He  started,  struck  by  what  she  had  said:  it  was 
almost  the  same  words  that  his  father  had  used  that 
afternoon. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  31 

"  My  boy,  will  you  always  stay  with  me  ?  You 
won't  go  away,  like  everybody?  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  Mummy,  you've  got  Granny  and  Uncle 
Gerrit  and  Uncle  Paul." 

"  Yes,  they  are  nice,"  she  said,  softly. 

And  she  thought: 

"  I  shall  lose  him,  later,  when  he's  grown  up  ... 
I  know  that  I  shall  lose  him  .  .  ." 

It  made  her  feel  very  weak  and  helpless ;  and  she 
began  to  cry  .  .  . 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  and,  in  a  stern  voice, 
forbade  her  to  be  so  excitable,  forbade  her  to  cry 
about  nothing  .  .  . 

It  was  heavenly  to  have  him  laying  down  the  law 
like  that.  And  she  thought: 

"  I  shall  lose  him,  when  he's  grown  up  ...  Oh, 
let  me  be  thankful  that  I  have  him  still  I  .  .  ." 

Then,  tired  out,  she  went  to  sleep;  and  he  left 
her,  thinking  to  himself: 

"  They  both  feel  the  same  thing!  " 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  tried  tyrannically  to  monopolize  her  son,  so 
that  Van  der  Welcke  became  very  jealous.  It  was 
the  next  day,  Wednesday  afternoon. 

"  Are  you  coming  with  me  to  Granny's?  " 

"  I  promised  Papa  to  go  cycling." 

"  You've  had  seven  weeks  for  cycling  with  Papa." 

"  I  promised  him  yesterday  that  I  would  go  for 
a  long  ride  to-day." 

She  was  angry,  offended: 

"  The  first  day  that  I'm  home!  .  .  ."  she  began. 

He  kissed  her,  with  a  shower  of  tiny  little  kisses, 
tried  to  appease  her  wrath: 

"  I  promised!  "  he  said.  "We  don't  go  cycling 
together  often.  You  will  have  me  to  yourself  all 
the  evening.  Be  sensible  now  and  nice;  and  don't 
be  so  cross." 

She  tried  to  be  reasonable,  but  it  cost  her  an  ef- 
fort. She  went  alone  to  Mrs.  van  Lowe's.  She 
saw  two  umbrellas  in  the  hall: 

"  Who  is  with  mevrouw?  "  she  asked  the  maid. 

"  Mrs.  van  Naghel  and  Mrs.  van  Saetzema." 

She  hesitated.  She  had  not  seen  her  sisters  since 
that  awful  Sunday-evening.  She  had  gone  abroad 
five  days  after.  But  she  wanted  to  show  them  .  .  . 

She  went  upstairs.     Her  step  was  no  longer  as 

32 


THE  LATER  LIFE  33 

timid  as  when  she  climbed  those  stairs  ten  months 
ago,  when  she  first  came  back  among  them  all.  She 
did  not  wish  to  seem  arrogant,  but  also  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  too  humble.  She  entered  with  a  smile : 

"  Mamma !  "  she  cried,  gaily,  kissing  her  mother. 

Mrs.  van  Lowe  was  surprised: 

"My  child!"  she  exclaimed,  trembling.  "My 
child!  Are  you  back?  Are  you  back  again? 
What  a  long  time  you've  been  abroad!  " 

"  I've  enjoyed  myself  immensely.  How  d'ye  do, 
Bertha?  How  d'ye  do,  Adolphine?" 

She  did  not  shake  hands,  but  just  nodded  to  them, 
almost  cordially,  because  of  her  mother,  who  looked 
anxiously  at  her  three  daughters.  Bertha  and 
Adolphine  nodded  back.  Carelessly  and  easily,  she 
took  the  lead  in  the  conversation  and  talked  about 
Nice.  She  tried  to  talk  naturally,  without  brag- 
ging; but  in  spite  of  herself  there  was  a  note  of  tri- 
umph in  her  voice: 

"  Yes,  I  felt  I  wanted  to  go  abroad  a  bit  ... 
Not  nice  of  me  to  run  away  without  saying  good- 
bye, was  it,  Mamma  dear?  Well,  you  see,  Con- 
stance sometimes  behaves  differently  from  other 
people  ...  I  had  a  very  pleasant  time  at  Nice: 
full  season,  lovely  weather." 

"  Weren't  you  lonely?  " 

"  No,  for  on  the  very  first  day  I  met  some  of  our 
Rome  friends  at  the  hotel  .  .  ." 

She   felt  that  Bertha  started,  blinked  her  eyes, 


34  THE  LATER  LIFE 

disapproved  of  her  for  daring  to  speak  of  Rome. 
And  she  revelled  in  doing  so,  casually  and  airily, 
thought  it  delicious  to  dazzle  Adolphine  with  a 
list  of  her  social  triumphs,  very  naturally  de- 
scribed: 

"  People  we  used  to  know  in  Rome:  Comte  and 
Comtesse  d'Azigny.  He  was  French  ambassador 
in  those  days.  They  recognized  me  at  once  and 
were  very  kind-;  and  through  the  introduction  I  went 
to  a  glorious  ball  at  the  Duchesse  de  Rivoli's. 
And,  Mummy,  here's  a  portrait  of  your  daughter  in 
her  ball-dress." 

She  showed  the  photograph,  enjoyed  giving  the 
almost  too-well-executed  portrait  to  Mamma,  not  to 
her  sisters,  while  letting  them  see  it.  She  described 
her  dress,  described  the  ball,  bragging  a  little  this 
time,  saying  that,  after  all,  parties  abroad  were  al- 
ways much  grander  than  that  "  seeing  a  few 
friends  "  in  Holland,  addressing  all  her  remarks  to 
Mamma  and,  in  words  just  tinged  with  ostentation, 
displaying  no  small  scorn  for  Bertha's  dinners  and 
Adolphine's  "  little  evenings:" 

"  Everything  here  is  on  such  a  small  scale,"  she 
continued.  "  There,  the  first  thing  you  see  is  a 
suite  of  twelve  rooms,  all  with  electric  light  ...  or, 
better  still,  all  lit  up  with  wax-candles  .  .  .  Yes,  our 
little  social  efforts  at  the  Hague  cut  a  very  poor  figure 
beside  it." 

She  gave  a  contemptuous  little  laugh  to  annoy 


THE  LATER  LIFE  35 

her  sisters,  while  Mamma,  always  interested  in  the 
doings  of  the  great,  did  not  notice  the  contempt  and 
was  glad  enough  to  see  that  the  sisters  behaved  as 
usual  to  one  another.  And  now  Constance  went 
on  to  say  that  everything  had  gone  on  so  well  at 
home,  that  Truitje  had  looked  after  everything, 
even  though  Constance  had  gone  away  indefinitely, 
an  unprecedented  thing,  so  unlike  a  Dutch  house- 
wife !  Then  she  turned  to  her  sisters  with  an  in- 
different phrase  or  two;  and  they  answered  her  al- 
most cordially,  out  of  respect  for  Mamma  .  .  . 

Adolphine  was  the  first  to  leave,  exasperated  by 
Constance'  insufferable  tone,  by  all  that  talk  about 
Nice,  all  those  counts  and  dukes  whom  Constance 
had  mentioned;  and,  when  Constance  said  good- 
bye, Bertha  also  left  and  they  went  down  the  stairs 
together. 

"  Constance,"  said  Bertha,  "  can  I  speak  to  you  a 
minute  in  the  cloak-room?" 

Constance  looked  up  haughtily,  surprised ;  but  she 
did  not  like  to  refuse.  They  went  into  the  little 
cloak-room. 

"  Constance,"  said  Bertha,  "  I  do  so  want  to  say 
that  I  am  sorry  for  what  happened  between  us. 
Really,  it  pained  me  very  much.  And  I  want  to  tell 
you  also  that  Van  Naghel  greatly  appreciated  Van 
der  Welcke's  writing  to  him  to  apologize.  He  has 
written  to  Van  der  Welcke  to  say  so.  But  we 
should  both  like  to  call  on  you  one  day,  to  show 


36  THE  LATER  LIFE 

you  how  glad  we  should  be  to  come  back  to  the  old 
terms  once  more." 

"  Bertha,"  said  Constance,  a  little  impatiently  and 
wearily,  "  I  am  prepared  to  receive  your  visit,  but 
I  should  really  like  to  know  what  is  the  good  of  it 
and  why  you  suggest  it.  Do  let  us  have  some  sin- 
cerity .  .  .  when  there  is  no  occasion  for  hy- 
pocrisy. Sometimes  one  has  to  be  insincere  .  .  . 
but  there  is  no  need  for  that  between  us  now.  We 
both  know  that  our  mutual  sympathy,  if  it  ever  ex- 
isted, is  dead.  We  never  meet  except  at  Mamma's 
and  we  don't  let  her  see  our  estrangement.  Apart 
from  that,  it  seems  to  me  that  things  are  over  be- 
tween us." 

"  So  you  would  rather  that  Van  Naghel  and  I  did 
not  come?  " 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  decide,  Bertha :  I  shall 
speak  about  it  to  Van  der  Welcke  and  write  you  a 
line." 

"  Is  that  cold  answer  all  you  have  to  say  to  me, 
Constance?  " 

"  Bertha,  a  little  time  ago,  I  was  not  backward 
in  showing  my  affection  for  you  all.  Perhaps  I 
asked  too  much  in  return;  but,  in  any  case,  I  was 
repulsed.  And  now  I  retire.  That  is  all." 

"  Constance,  you  don't  know  how  sorry  we  all 
are  that  the  old  aunts  .  .  .  spoke  as  they  did. 
They  are  foolish  old  women,  Constance ;  they  are  in 
their  second  childhood.  Mamma  had  to  take  to 


THE  LATER  LIFE  37 

her  bed,  her  nerves  are  still  quite  upset;  she  can't 
bear  to  see  her  sisters  now;  and  it  sometimes  sends 
her  almost  out  of  her  mind.  I  have  never  seen  her 
like  it  before.  And  we  are  all  of  us,  all  of  us,  Con- 
stance, very,  very  sorry." 

"  Bertha,  those  two  old  women  only  yelled  out 
at  the  top  of  their  voices,  as  deaf  people  do,  what 
the  rest  of  you  thought  in  your  hearts." 

"  Come,  Constance,  don't  be  so  bitter.  You  are 
hard  and  unjust.  I  swear  that  you  are  mistaken. 
It  is  not  as  you  think.  Let  me  show  it  to  you  in 
the  future,  let  me  prove  it  to  you  .  .  .  and  please 
speak  to  Van  der  Welcke  and  write  and  tell  me  a  day 
when  we  shall  find  you  at  home,  so  that  Van  Naghel 
can  shake  hands  with  Van  der  Welcke.  He  is  not 
a  young  man,  Constance,  and  your  husband  is 
under  forty.  It's  true,  Van  der  Welcke  has  apolo- 
gized and  Van  Naghel  appreciates  it,  but  that  doesn't 
prevent  him  from  wishing  to  shake  hands  with  Van 
der  Welcke." 

"  I'll  tell  my  husband,  Bertha.  But  I  don't  know 
that  he  will  think  it  so  necessary  to  shake  hands,  any 
more  than  I  do.  We  live  very  quietly  now,  Bertha, 
and  people,  Hague  people,  no  longer  concern  us. 
And  Van  Naghel  only  wants  to  shake  hands  because 
of  people." 

"  And  because  of  the  old  friendship." 

"  Very  well,  Bertha,"  said  Constance,  coldly,  "  be- 
cause of  the  old  friendship :  a  vague  term  that  says 


3 8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

very  little  to  me.  What  I  wished  for  was  brotherly 
and  sisterly  affection,  cordial  companionship.  That 
is  no  longer  possible :  it  was  a  foolish  fancy  of  mine, 
which  has  gone  forever.  But,  as  I  said,  I  shall  speak 
to  Van  der  Welcke." 

They  came  out  into  the  hall;  the  maid  was  wait- 
ing at  the  door.  It  was  raining.  Bertha's  car- 
riage was  outside,  had  been  sent  to  fetch  her. 

"Shall  I  drop  you  on  my  way,  Constance?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  Bertha;  the  fresh  air  will  do  me 
good;  I'd  rather  walk." 

And,  as  she  walked,  she  thought: 

**  Oh,  why  did  I  go  on  like  that  to  annoy  them  ? 
And  why  didn't  I  welcome  Bertha's  visit  at  once? 
.  .  .  It's  all  so  small,  so  petty  .  .  ." 

And  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  under  her  um- 
brella, laughed  at  herself  a  little,  because  she  had 
shown  herself  so  petty. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  Addie's  wish,  at  the  little  schoolboy's  wish,  the 
Van  der  Welckes  responded  to  Van  Naghel's  ad- 
vances and  Constance  sent  a  note.  The  visit  was 
paid  and  the  brothers-in-law  shook  hands.  Van  der 
Welcke  himself  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  the 
whole  business;  but  Addie  was  pleased,  started  going 
for  walks  again  with  Frans  and  spoke  to  Karel  again 
at  the  grammar-school,  though  he  did  not  much 
care  for  him.  Two  days  later,  Marianne  called  in 
the  afternoon,  when  the  rain  was  coming  down  in 
torrents.  Constance  was  at  home.  The  girl  stood 
in  the  door-way  of  the  drawing-room: 

"  May  I  come  in,  Auntie?  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course,  Marianne,  do." 

"  I  don't  like  to :     I'm  rather  wet." 

"  Nonsense,  come  in !  " 

And  the  girl  suddenly  ran  in  and  threw  herself 
on  her  knees  beside  Constance,  almost  with  a 
scream : 

"  I  am  so  glad,  I  am  so  glad !  "  she  cried. 

"Why?" 

"  That  Uncle  wrote  to  Papa  .  .  .  that  Papa 
and  Mamma  have  been  here  .  .  .  that  everything 
is  all  right  again  ...  It  was  so  dreadful;  it  kept- 
me  from  sleeping.  I  kept  on  thinking  about  it.  It 

39 


40  THE  LATER  LIFE 

was  a  sort  of  nightmare,  an  obsession.  Auntie, 
dear  Auntie,  is  everything  all  right  now?  " 

"Yes,  certainly,  child." 

"  Really  all  right?  .  .  .  Are  you  coming  to  us 
again  .  .  .  and  may  I  come  and  see  you  .  .  .  and 
will  you  ask  me  to  dinner  again  soon?  Is  every- 
thing all  right,  really  all  right?  " 

She  snuggled  up  to  her  aunt  like  a  child,  putting 
her  head  against  Constance'  knees,  stroking  her 
hands : 

"  You  will  ask  me  again  soon,  Auntie,  won't  you  ? 
I  love  coming  to  you,  I  simply  love  it.  I  should 
have  missed  it  so,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  broke,  as  she  knelt  by  Constance'  side, 
and  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  sobbing  out  her 
words  so  excitedly  that  Constance  was  startled, 
thinking  it  almost  unnatural,  absurd: 

"  I  was  nearly  coming  to  you  before  Papa  and 
Mamma  had  been  .  .  .  But  I  didn't  dare  ...  I 
was  afraid  Papa  would  be  angry  .  .  .  But  I  can 
come  now,  it's  all  right  now  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  it's  all  right  now  .  .  ." 

She  kissed  Marianne.  But  the  door  opened  and 
Van  der  Welcke  entered. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Uncle  ?  " 

He  always  thought  it  odd  when  Marianne  called 
him  uncle,  just  like  that: 

"Is  it  you,  Marianne?  .  .  .  Constance,  did  I 
leave  my  Figaro  down  here  ?  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  41 

"TheFigarof    No  .  .  ." 

He  hunted  for  his  paper  and  then  sat  down. 

"  Uncle,"  said  Marianne,  "  I've  just  been  telling 
Auntie,  I'm  so  glad,  I'm  so  glad  that  everything's 
settled." 

"  So  am  I,  Marianne." 

Outside,  the  rain  came  pelting  down,  lashed  by 
the  howling  wind.  Inside,  all  was  cosiness,  with 
Constance  pouring  out  the  tea  and  telling  them 
about  Nice,  while  Marianne  talked  about  Emilie 
and  Van  Raven  and  how  they  were  not  getting  on 
very  well  together  and  how  Otto  and  Frances  were 
also  beginning  to  squabble  and  how  Mamma  took  it 
all  to  heart  and  allowed  it  to  depress  her: 

"  I  sha'n't  get  married,"  she  said.  "  I  see  no- 
thing but  unhappy  marriages  around  me.  I  sha'n't 
get  married." 

Then  she  started.  She  had  a  knack  of  behaving 
awkwardly  and  tactlessly,  of  saying  things  which  she 
ought  not  to  say.  Van  der  Welcke  looked  at  her, 
smiling.  To  make  up  for  her  indiscretion,  she  was 
more  demonstrative  than  ever,  profuse  in  exclama- 
tions of  delight: 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  how  glad  I  am  to  be  with  you 
once  more !  .  .  .  I  must  be  off  presently  in  the  rain 
...  I  wish  I  could  stay  .  .  ." 

"  But  stay  and  dine,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

Constance  hesitated:  she  saw  that  Marianne 
would  like  to  stop  on  and  she  did  not  know  what  to 


42  THE  LATER  LIFE 

do,  did  not  wish  to  seem  ungracious ;  and  yet  .  .  . 

"  Will  you  stay  to  dinner?  "  she  asked. 

Marianne  beamed  with  joy: 

"  Oh,  I  should  love  to,  Auntie !  Mamma  knows 
I'm  here;  she'll  understand  .  .  ." 

Constance  was  sorry  that  she  had  asked  her;  her 
nerves  were  feeling  the  strain  of  it  all ;  but  she  was 
determined  to  control  herself,  to  behave  naturally 
and  ordinarily.  She  could  see  it  plainly:  they  were 
too  fond  of  each  other  I 

They  were  in  love!  Long  before,  she  had 
seemed  to  guess  it,  when  she  saw  them  together,  at 
her  little  dinners.  The  veriest  trifle  —  an  intona- 
tion of  voice,  a  laughing  phrase,  the  passing  of  a 
dish  of  fruit  —  had  made  her  seem  to  guess  it. 
Then  the  vague  thought  that  went  through  her  mind, 
like  a  little  cloud,  would  vanish  at  once,  leaving  not 
even  a  shadow  behind  it.  But  the  cloud  had  come 
drifting  again  and  again,  brought  by  a  gesture,  a 
glance,  a  how-do-you-do  or  good-bye,  an  appoint- 
ment for  a  bicycle  ride.  On  such  occasions,  the 
brothers  had  always  gone  too  —  so  had  Addie  — 
and  there  had  never  been  anything  that  was  in  the 
least  incorrect;  and  at  the  little  dinners  there  was 
never  a  joke  that  went  too  far,  nor  an  attempt  at 
flirtation,  nor  the  very  least  resemblance  to  love- 
making.  And  therefore  those  vague  thoughts  had  al- 
ways drifted  away  again,  like  clouds;  and  Con- 
stance would  think : 


THE  LATER  LIFE  43 

"There  is  nothing,  there  is  nothing.  I  am  mis- 
taken. I  am  imagining  something  that  doesn't 
exist." 

She  had  not  seen  them  together  for  two  months; 
and  she  knew,  had  understood  from  a  word 
dropped  here  and  there,  that  Van  der  Welcke  had  not 
seen  Marianne  during  those  two  months  which  had 
passed  since  that  Sunday  evening.  And  now,  sud- 
denly, she  was  struck  by  it :  the  shy,  almost  glad  hesi- 
tation while  the  girl  was  standing  at  the  door  of 
Constance'  drawing-room;  her  unconcealed  delight 
at  being  able  to  come  back  to  this  house;  the  al- 
most unnatural  joy  with  which  she  had  sobbed  at 
Constance'  knee  .  .  .  until  Van  der  Welcke  came 
in,  after  doubtless  recognizing  the  sound  of  her 
voice  in  his  little  smoking-room,  as  transparent  as  a 
child,  with  his  clumsy  excuse  of  searching  for  a 
newspaper.  And  now  at  once  she  was  struck  by  it : 
the  almost  insuppressible  affection  with  which  they 
had  greeted  each  other,  with  a  certain  smiling 
radiance  that  beamed  from  them,  involuntarily, 
irresistibly,  unconsciously  .  .  .  But  still  Constance 
thought : 

"  I  am  mistaken,  there  is  nothing;  and  I  am 
imagining  something  that  doesn't  exist." 

And  the  thought  passed  away,  that  they  were 
really  in  love  with  each  other;  only  this  time  there 
remained  a  faint  wonder,  a  doubt,  which  had  never 
been  there  before.  And,  while  she  talked  about 


44  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Nice,  it  struck  her  that  Van  der  Welcke  was  still 
there  .  .  .  that  he  was  staying  on  in  her  drawing- 
room,  a  thing  which  he  never  did  except  when  Paul 
was  there,  or  Gerrit  .  .  .  He  sat  on,  without  say- 
ing much;  but  that  happy  smile  never  left  his  lips 
.  .  .  Yet  she  still  thought: 

"I  am  mistaken;  it  is  only  imagination;  there  is 
nothing,  or  at  most  a  little  mutual  attraction;  and 
what  harm  is  there  in  that?" 

But,  be  this  as  it  might,  she,  who  was  so  jealous 
where  her  son  was  concerned,  now  felt  not  the  least 
shade  of  jealousy  amid  her  wondering  doubts.  Yes, 
it  was  all  gone,  any  love,  passion,  sentiment  that 
she  had  ever  entertained  for  Henri.  It  was  quite 
dead  .  .  .  And,  now  that  he  smiled  like  that,  she 
noticed,  with  a  sort  of  surprise,  how  young  he  was : 

"  He  is  thirty-eight,"  she  thought,  "  and  looks 
even  younger." 

As  he  sat  there,  calmly,  always  with  the  light  of 
a  smile  on  his  face,  it  struck  her  that  he  was  very 
young,  with  a  healthy,  youthful  freshness,  and  that 
he  had  not  a  wrinkle,  not  a  grey  hair  in  his  head 
.  .  .  His  blue  eyes  were  almost  the  eyes  of  a  child. 
Even  Addie's  eyes,  though  they  were  like  his 
father's,  were  more  serious,  had  an  older  look.  .  .  . 
And,  at  the  sight  of  that  youthfulness,  she  thought 
herself  old,  even  though  she  was  now  showing 
Marianne  the  pretty  photograph  from  Nice  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  felt  old;  and  she  was  hardly  surprised  — 


THE  LATER  LIFE  45 

if  it  was  so,  if  she  was  not  mistaken  —  at  that 
youthfulness  in  her  husband  and  at  his  possible  love 
for  that  young  girl  .  .  .  Marianne's  youth  seemed 
to  be  nearer  to  his  own  youth  .  .  .  And  sometimes 
it  was  so  evident  that  she  almost  ceased  doubting 
and  promised  herself  to  be  careful,  not  to  encour- 
age Marianne,  not  to  invite  her  any  more  .  .  . 

Unconscious:  was  it  unconscious,  thought  Con- 
stance, on  their  part?  Had  they  ever  exchanged  a 
more  affectionate  word,  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a 
glance?  Had  they  already  confessed  it  to  each 
other  .  .  .  and  to  themselves?  And  a  delicate  in- 
tuition told  her: 

"  No,  they  have  confessed  nothing  to  each  other; 
no,  they  have  not  even  confessed  anything  to  them- 
selves." 

Perhaps  neither  of  them  knew  it  yet;  and,  if  so, 
Constance  was  the  only  one  who  knew.  She  looked 
at  Marianne :  the  girl  was  very  young,  even  though 
she  had  been  out  a  year  or  two.  She  had  something 
of  Emilie's  fragility,  but  she  was  more  natural, 
franker;  and  that  natural  frankness  showed  in  her 
whole  attitude :  she  seemed  not  to  think,  but  to  allow 
herself  to  be  dragged  along  by  impulse,  by  senti- 
ment .  .  .  She  looked  out  with  her  smile  at  the 
pelting  rain,  nestled  deeper  in  her  chair,  luxuriously, 
like  a  kitten,  then  suddenly  jumped  up,  poured  out  a 
cup  of  tea  for  Constance  and  herself;  and,  when 
Van  der  Welcke  begged  his  wife's  leave  to  smoke  a 


46  THE  LATER  LIFE 

cigarette,  she  sprang  up  again,  struct  a  match,  held 
the  light  to  him,  with  a  fragile  grace  of  gesture 
like  a  little  statue.  Her  pale-brown  eyes,  with  a 
touch  of  gold-dust  over  them,  were  like  chrysolite; 
and  they  gazed  up  enthusiastically  and  then  cast 
their  glance  downwards  timidly,  under  the  shade  of 
their  lids.  She  was  pale,  with  the  anaemic  pallor 
of  alabaster,  the  pallor  of  our  jaded  society-girls; 
and  her  hands  moved  feverishly  and  restlessly,  as 
though  the  fingers  were  constantly  seeking  an  object 
for  their  butterfly  sensitiveness  .  .  . 

Was  it  so?  Or  was  it  all  Constance'  imagina- 
tion? And,  amidst  her  wondering  doubts,  there 
came  suddenly  —  if  it  really  was  so  —  a  spasm  of 
jealousy;  but  not  jealousy  of  her  husband's  love: 
jealousy  of  his  youth.  She  suddenly  looked  back 
fifteen  years  and  felt  herself  grown  old,  felt  him 
remaining  young.  Life,  real  life,  for  which  she 
sometimes  had  a  vague  yearning,  while  she  felt  her- 
self too  old  for  it,  after  frittering  away  her  days: 
that  life  he  would  perhaps  still  be  able  to  live,  if 
he  met  with  it.  He  at  least  was  not  too  old  for  it ! 

It  all  filled  her  with  a  passion  of  misery  and 
anger ;  and  then  again  she  thought : 

"  No,  there  is  nothing;  and  I  am  imagining  all 
manner  of  things  that  do  not  exist." 

Addle  came  home ;  and,  with  the  rain  pelting  out- 
side, there  was  a  gentle  cosiness  indoors,  at  table. 
Constance  was  silent,  but  the  others  were  cheerful. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  47 

And,  when,  after  tea  had  been  served,  the  fury  out 
of  doors  seemed  to  have  subsided,  Marianne  stood 
up,  almost  too  unwilling  to  go  away: 

"  It's  time  for  me  to  go,  Auntie  .  .  ." 

"Shall  Addie  see  you  home?" 

"  No,  Addie's  working,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 
"  I'll  see  Marianne  home." 

Constance  said  nothing. 

"  Oh,  Auntie,"  said  Marianne,  "  I  am  so  glad 
that  everything's  settled !  " 

She  kissed  Constance  passionately. 

"  Uncle,  isn't  it  a  nuisance  for  you  to  go  all  that 
way  with  me?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  bicycle  for  you !  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  if  only  we  had  our  tandem  here !  " 

"  It's  stopped  raining;  we  shall  be  able  to  walk." 

They  went,  leaving  Constance  alone.  Her  eyes 
were  eager  to  follow  them  along  the  street.  She 
could  not  help  herself,  softly  opened  a  window, 
looked  out  into  the  damp  winter  night.  She  saw 
them  go  towards  the  Bankastraat.  They  were 
walking  side  by  side,  quite  ordinarily.  She  watched 
them  for  a  minute  or  two,  until  they  turned  the 
corner: 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  there  is  nothing.  Oh,  it  would 
be  too  dreadful!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

VAN  DER  WELCKE  and  Marianne  went  side  by  side. 
"  How  deliciously  fresh  it  is  now,"  she  almost 
carolled.  "  The  wind  has  gone  down  and  the  air 
is  lovely;  and  look,  how  beautiful  the  sky  is  with 
those  last  black  clouds  .  .  .  Oh,  I  think  it  so  ripping, 
that  everything's  all  right  again  between  you  and 
Papa !  I  did  feel  it  so.  You  know  how  fond  I  am 
of  both  of  you,  Aunt  Constance  and  you,  and  of  Ad- 
die  ;  and  it  was  all  so  sad  .  .  .  Tell  me,  does  Auntie 
still  feel  bitter  about  it?  I  expect  she  does  .  .  . 
Ah,  I  understand  quite  well  now  .  .  .  that  she 
would  have  liked  to  come  to  our  house  .  .  .  offi- 
cially, let  me  say !  But  why  not  first  have  spoken  to 
Mamma  ...  or  to  me,  who  am  so  fond  of  you? 
Then  we  could  have  seen :  we  might  have  thought  of 
something.  As  it  was,  Mamma  was  so  startled  by 
that  unexpected  visit  .  .  .  Poor  Aunt  Constance,  she 
isn't  happy !  How  sad  that  you  and  she  aren't  hap- 
pier together!  Oh,  I  could  cry  about  it  at  times: 
it  seems  such  a  shame!  ...  A  man  and  woman 
married  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  and  then  what  I  so 
often  see !  .  .  .  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  what  I  did 
before  dinner,  it  was  stupid  of  me;  but  I  may  speak 
now,  mayn't  I?  ...  Oh,  I  sha'n't  marry,  I  won't 
marry!  .  .  .  To  be  married  like  Otto  and  Frances, 

48 


THE  LATER  LIFE  49 

like  Emilie  and  Van  Raven :  I  think  it  dreadful.  Or 
like  you  and  Auntie:  I  should  think  it  dreadful. 
Can't  you  be  happier  together?  Not  even  for  Ad- 
die's  sake?  I  wish  you  could;  it  would  make  me 
so  happy.  I  can't  bear  it,  when  you  and  Auntie 
quarrel  .  .  .  She  was  sweet  and  gentle  to-night,  but 
so  very  quiet.  She  is  so  nice  .  .  .  That  was  a 
mad  fit  of  hers,  to  go  abroad  so  suddenly;  but  then 
she  had  had  so  much  to  vex  her.  Oh,  those  two  old 
aunts:  I  could  have  murdered  them!  I  can  hear 
them  now!  .  .  .  Poor  Auntie!  Do  try  and  be  a 
little  nice  to  her  .  .  .  Has  this  been  going  on  be- 
tween you  for  years?  Don't  you  love  each  other 
any  longer?  .  .  .  No,  I  sha'n't  marry,  I  sha'n't 
marry,  I  shall  never  marry." 

"Come,  Marianne:  if  some  one  comes  along 
whom  you  get  to  love  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  shall  never  marry  ...  I  might  ex- 
pect too  much  of  my  husband.  I  should  really  want 
to  find  something  beautiful,  some  great  jcy,  in  my 
love  .  .  .  and  to  marry  for  the  sake  of  marrying, 
like  Frances  or  Emilie,  is  a  thing  I  couldn't,  couldn't 
do  ...  Otto  is  fonder  of  Louise  than  of  his 
wife;  and  lately  Emilie  and  Henri  are  inseparable 
...  In  our  family  there  has  always  been  that  af- 
fection between  brother  and  sister.  But  it  is  too 
strong,  far  too  strong.  It  doesn't  make  them 
happy.  I've  never  felt  it  in  that  way,  fond  as  I 
am  of  my  brothers  .  .  .  No,  I  should  place  the 


50  THE  LATER  LIFE 

man  I  love  above  everybody,  above  everybody.  .  .  . 
But  I  suppose  you're  laughing  ...  at  my  bread- 
and-butter  notions  ..." 

"No,  I'm  not  laughing,  Marianne;  and,  just  as 
you  would  like  to  see  Aunt  Constance  and  me  happy, 
so  I  should  like  to  see  you  happy  .  .  .  with  a  man 
whom  you  loved." 

'  That  will  never  be,  Uncle;  no,  that  will  never 
be." 

"How  can  you  tell?" 

"Oh,  I  feel  it,  I  feel  it!  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  I'll  have  a  bet  on  it,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ingly. 

"  No,  Uncle,"  she  said,  with  a  pained  smile,  "  I 
won't  bet  on  a  thing  like  that  .  .  ." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  Marianne  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  that  .  .  ." 

"  But  you  mustn't  be  so  melancholy,  at  your  age. 
You're  so  young  .  .  ." 

"  Twenty-one.     That's  quite  old." 

"Old!     Old!     What  about  me?" 

She  laughed: 

"  Oh,  you're  young !     A  man  .  .  ." 

"  Is  always  young?  " 

11  Not  always.     But  you  are." 

"  A  young  uncle?  " 

"  Yes,  a  young  uncle  ...  A  woman  gets  old 
quicker  ..." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  51 

"  So,  when  you're  old  and  I  am  still  young,  we 
shall  be  about  the  same  age." 

She  laughed: 

"  What  a  calculation !  No,  you're  older.  But 
age  doesn't  go  by  years." 

"  No.  I  sometimes  have  very  young  wishes. 
Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  longing  for  since  yes- 
terday, like  a  baby,  like  a  boy?  " 

"  No." 

"  A  motor-car." 

She  laughed,  with  a  laugh  like  little  tinkling  bells : 

"  A  motor-car?" 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  delightful?  To  go  tearing  and 
tearing  over  fields  and  roads,  through  clouds  of 
dust  .  .  ." 

'  You're  becoming  poetic  1  " 

"  Yes,  it's  making  me  poetic  .  .  ." 

"And  the  smell  of  the  petrol?  .  .  .  The  mask 
and  goggles  against  the  dust?  .  .  .  The  hideous 
dress?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing!  ...  To  tear  and  fly  along, 
faster  and  faster,  at  a  mad  pace  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  a  motor-car  .  .  ."  1 

"  I  have,  in  Brussels,  in  a  friend's  car.  There's 
nothing  to  come  up  to  it." 

Her  laugh  tinkled  out  again: 

"  Yes,  now  you're  most  certainly  like  a  boy!  " 

1  The  period  of  the  novel  is  about  1901. 


52  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  I'm  so  young?  " 

"O  young  Uncle!" 

"You  oughtn't  to  call  me  uncle,  Marianne:  I'm 
too  young  for  it." 

The  tinkling  bells : 

"  What  am  I  to  call  you  then?  " 

"  Anything  you  like.     Not  uncle." 

"Nunkie?" 

"  No,  no  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  can't  call  you  Henri  ...  or  Van  der 
Welcke?" 

"  No,  that's  too  difficult.     Better  say  nothing." 

The  tinkling  bells : 

"  Nothing.  Very  well.  .  .  .  But  am  I  to  say  U 
or  jef  "  1 

"  Say  ;>." 

"  But  it  seems  so  funny  .  .  .  before  people !  " 

"  People,  people !  You  can't  always  bother  about 
people." 

"But  I  have  to:  I'm  a  girl!" 

"  Oh,  Marianne,  people  are  always  a  nuisance !  " 

"  A  desert  island  would  be  the  thing." 

"  Yes,  a  desert  island  .  .  ." 

"With  a  motor-car  .  .  ." 

"  And  just  you  and  me." 

They  both  laughed;  and  her  little  bells  tinkled 
through  his  boyish  laugh. 

"  What  a  perfect  night !  " 

1  Equivalent  to  <vous  or  /«. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  53 

"  Perfect :  the  air  is  so  crisp  .  .  ." 

"  Marianne  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  Uncle  .  .  ." 

"  No,  not  uncle  .  .  .  You  must  be  my  little 
friend  .  .  .  Not  a  niece  .  .  .  I've  never  had  a 
girl-friend." 

"  Your  little  friend?  ...  But  I  am!  " 

"  Well,  that's  all  right." 

"  Look,  how  dark  it  is  in  the  Wood  .  .  .  People 
say  it's  dangerous.  Is  it,  Uncle?  No,  I  didn't 
mean  to  say  uncle  .  .  ." 

"Sometimes.     Are   you    frightened?     Take   my 


arm." 


"  No,  I'm  not  frightened." 

"  Come,  take  my  arm." 

"  I  don't  mind  .  .  ." 

"  We  shall  be  home  in  a  minute." 

"  If  only  Mamma  isn't  angry  with  me,  for  staying 
out  .  .  .  Are  you  coming  in?  " 

"  No  .  .  .  no  .  .  ." 

"  Not  because  you're  still  angry  with  us?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  angry." 

"That's  all  right.  Oh,  I  am  glad!  I  should 
like  to  give  you  a  motor  for  making  me  so  happy !  " 

"  Those  old  tin  kettles  cost  a  lot  of  money  .  .  ." 

"  Poor  Uncle !     No,  I  don't  mean  uncle  .  .  ." 

"  Here  we  are." 

He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Thank  you  for  seeing  me  home." 


54  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Good-night,  Marianne." 

The  butler  opened  the  door;  she  went  in.  He 
trotted  back,  whistling  like  a  boy. 

"Wherever  have  you  been,  Marianne?"  asked 
Bertha. 

"  I  stayed  to  dinner  at  Aunt  Constance'." 

"  I  was  anxious  about  you,"  said  Bertha. 

But  she  was  glad  that  Constance  had  been  so 
gracious. 

"  Who  brought  you  home?  " 

"  Uncle." 

She  ran  up  to  her  room.  She  looked  in  the  glass, 
as  though  to  read  her  own  eyes.  There  she  read 
her  secret: 

"  God  help  me  I  "  she  thought.  "  I  oughtn't  to 
have  gone.  I  oughtn't  to  have  gone.  I  was  too 
weak,  too  weak  .  .  .  Oh,  if  only  they  had  never 
made  it  up,  Papa  and  ...  he!  ...  Oh  dear  I  I 
shall  never  go  there  again.  It's  the  last  time,  the  last 
time  .  .  .  O  God,  help  me,  help  me !  .  .  ." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  sat  with  her  face  hidden 
in  her  hands,  not  weeping,  her  happiness  still  shed- 
ding its  dying  rays  around  her,  but  with  a  rising 
agony;  and  she  remained  like  that  for  a  long  time, 
with  her  eyes  closed,  as  though  she  were  dreaming 
and  suffering,  both. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"AND  who  do  you  think' s  in  town?"  Van  Vrees- 
wijck  asked  Van  der  Welcke,  as  they  were  walking 
together. 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Brauws." 

"Brauws?" 

"  Max  Brauws." 

"  Max?     Never!     What,  Leiden  Max?  " 

"  Yes,  Leiden  Max.  I  hadn't  seen  him  for 
years." 

"  Nor  I,  of  course.     And  what  is  he  doing?  " 

"  Well,  that's  a  difficult  question  to  answer. 
Shall  I  say,  being  eccentric?  " 

"  Eccentric?     In  what  way?  " 

"  Oh,  in  the  things  he  does.  First  one  thing  and 
then  another.  He's  giving  lectures  now.  In  fact, 
he's  a  Bohemian." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  him?  " 

"  Yes,  he  asked  after  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him.  Does  he  belong  to 
theWitte?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  He's  a  mad  fellow.  Always  was  mad.  An  in- 
teresting chap,  though.  And  a  good  sort.  Has  he 
money?  " 

55 


5 6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Where  is  he  staying?  " 

"  In  rooms,  in  the  Buitenhof." 

"  We're  close  by.     Let's  go  and  see  if  he's  in." 

Brauws  was  not  in.  And  Van  der  Welcke  left  a 
card  for  his  old  college-chum,  with  a  pencilled  word. 

A  fortnight  passed;  and  Van  der  Welcke  began 
to  feel  annoyed: 

"  I've  heard  nothing  from  Brauws,"  he  said  to 
Van  Vreeswijck. 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  either." 

"  Perhaps  he's  offended  about  something." 

"  Nonsense,  Brauws  isn't  that  sort." 

Van  der  Welcke  was  silent.  Since  the  scene  with 
the  family,  he  was  unduly  sensitive,  thinking  that 
people  were  unfriendly,  that  they  avoided  him. 

"  Well,  if  he  wants  to  ignore  my  card,  let  him !  " 
he  said,  angrily.  "  He  can  go  to  the  devil,  for  all  I 
care!" 

But,  a  couple  of  days  later,  when  Van  der  Welcke 
was  smoking  in  his  little  room,  Truitje  brought  in  a 
card. 

"  Brauws !  "  exclaimed  Van  der  Welcke. 

And  he  rushed  outside : 

"  Come  upstairs,  old  chap !  "  he  shouted,  from 
the  landing. 

In  the  hall  stood  a  big,  quiet  man,  looking  up  with 
a  smile  round  his  thick  moustache. 

"  May  I  come  up?" 


THE  LATER  LIFE  57 

"  Yes,  yes,  come  up.  Upon  my  word,  Max,  I  am 
glad  .  .  ." 

Brauws  came  upstairs;  the  two  men  gripped  each 
other's  hands. 

"  Welckje !  "  said  Brauws.     "  Mad  Hans !  " 

Van  der  Welcke  laughed : 

'  Yes,  those  were  my  nicknames.     My  dear  chap, 
what  an  age  since  we  .  .  ." 

He  took  him  to  his  den,  made  him  sit  down,  pro- 
duced cigars. 

"  No,  thanks,  I  don't  smoke.  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Why,  Hans,  you  haven't  changed  a  bit.  You're  a 
little  stouter ;  and  that's  all.  Just  look  at  the  fellow ! 
You  could  pass  for  your  own  son.  How  old  are 
you?  You're  thirty-eight  .  .  .  getting  on  for 
thirty-nine.  And  now  just  look  at  me.  I'm  three 
years  your  senior;  but  I  look  old  enough  to  be  your 
father." 

Van  der  Welcke  laughed,  pleased  and  flattered  by 
the  compliment  paid  to  his  youth.  Their  Leiden 
memories  came  up;  they  reminded  each  other  of  a 
score  of  incidents,  speaking  and  laughing  together  in 
unfinished,  breathless  sentences  which  they  under- 
stood at  once. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?  " 

"  Oh,  a  lot!  Too  much  to  tell  you  all  at  once. 
And  you?" 

"I?  Nothing,  nothing.  You  know  I'm  mar- 
ried?" 


5 8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Brauws.  "  But  what  do  you 
'do?  You're  in  a  government-office,  I  suppose?" 

"  No,  Lord  no,  old  fellow !  Nothing,  I  just  do 
nothing.  I  cycle." 

They  both  laughed.  Brauws  looked  at  his  old 
college-friend,  almost  paternally,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  The  beggar  hasn't  changed  an  atom,"  he  said. 
"  Yes,  now  that  I  look  at  you  again,  I  see  something 
here  and  there.  But  you've  remained  Welckje,  for 
all  that  .  .  ." 

"  But  not  Mad  Hans,"  sighed  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  Vreeswijck  has  become  a  great  swell,"  said 
Brauws.  "  And  the  others?  " 

"  Greater  swells  still." 

"Not  you?" 

"  No,  not  I.     Do  you  cycle  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Have  you  a  motor-car?  " 

"  No." 

"  That's  a  pity.  I  should  like  to  have  a  motor. 
But  I  can't  afford  one  of  those  sewing-machines." 

Brauws  roared  with  laughter : 

"  Why  don't  you  start  saving  up  for  one?  " 

11  No,  old  chap,  no  .  .  ." 

"  I  say,  do  you  know  what's  a  funny  thing? 
While  you  were  living  in  Brussels,  I  too  was  living 
just  outside  Brussels." 

"Impossible!" 

11  Yes,  I  was." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  59 

"And  we  never  met?" 

"  I  so  seldom  went  into  town.  If  I  had 
known  ..." 

"  But  what  a  pity!  " 

"  Yes.  And  what's  still  funnier  is  that,  when  you 
were  on  the  Riviera,  I  was  there  too." 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow,  you're  kidding  me  I  " 

"  I  never  knew  till  later  that  you  were  there  also 
that  year.  But  you  were  at  Monte  Carlo  and  I  at 
Antibes.  Just  compare  the  dates." 

They  compared  dates:     Brauws  was  right. 

"  But  that  was  horribly  unlucky." 

"  It  couldn't  be  helped.  However,  we've  found 
each  other  now." 

"  Yes.  We  must  see  something  of  each  other 
now,  eh?  Let's  go  cycling  together  ...  or  buy  a 
motor-car  between  us." 

Brauws  roared  with  laughter  again: 

"  Happy  devil !  "  he  shouted. 

"  I  ? "  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  a  little  huffed. 
"What's  there  happy  about  me?  I  sometimes 
feel  very  miserable,  very  miserable  indeed." 

Brauws  understood  that  he  was  referring  to  his 
marriage. 

"  Here's  my  boy,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  showing 
Addie's  photograph. 

"  A  good  face.     What's  he  going  to  be?  " 

"  He's  going  into  the  diplomatic  service.  I  say, 
shall  we  take  a  stroll?  " 


60  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  No,  I'd  rather  sit  here  and  talk." 

"  You're  just  as  placid  as  ever  .  .  ." 

Brauws  laughed : 

"  Outwardly,  perhaps,"  he  said.  "  Inwardly, 
I'm  anything  but  placid." 

"  Have  you  been  abroad  much?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  o>  you  do?" 

"  Much  .  .  .  and  perhaps  nothing.  I  am  seek- 
ing .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  I  can't  explain  it  in  a  few  words.  Perhaps 
later,  when  we've  seen  more  of  each  other." 

'  You're  the  same  queer  chap  that  you  always 
were.  What  are  you  seeking?  " 

"  Something." 

"There's  our  old  oracle.  'Something!'  You 
were  always  fond  of  those  short  words." 

"  The  universe  lies  in  a  word." 

"  Max,  I  can't  follow  you,  if  you  go  on  like  that. 
I  never  could,  you  know." 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself  now,  about  Rome,  about 
Brussels." 

Van  der  Welcke,  smoking,  described  his  life,  more 
or  less  briefly,  through  the  blue  clouds  of  his  ciga- 
rette. Brauws  listened : 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  Women  .  .  ." 

He  had  a  habit  of  not  finishing  his  sentences,  or  of 
saying  only  a  single  word. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  61 

"And  what  have  women  done  to  you?"  asked 
Van  der  Welcke,  gaily. 

Brauws  laughed: 

"  Nothing  much,"  he  said,  jestingly.  "  Not  worth 
talking  about.  There  have  been  many  women  in 
my  life  .  .  .  and  yet  they  were  not  there." 

Van  der  Welcke  reflected. 

"  Women,"  he  said,  pensively.  "  Sometimes,  you 
know  .  .  ." 

"  Hans,  are  you  in  love?  " 

"  No,  no ! "  said  Van  der  Welcke,  starting. 
"  No,  I've  been  fairly  good." 

"  Fairly  good?"   ' 

"  Yes,  only  fairly  .  .  ." 

"  You're  in  love,"  said  Brauws,  decisively. 

"You're  mad!"  said  Van  der  Welcke.  "I 
wasn't  thinking  of  myself  .  .  .  And,  now,  what  are 
you  doing  in  the  Hague?" 

Brauws  laughed: 

"  I'm  going  to  give  lectures,  not  only  here,  but 
all  over  Holland." 

"  Lectures?"  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  in  astonish- 
ment. "What  made  you  think  of  that?  Do  you 
do  it  to  make  money?  Don't  you  find  it  a  bore  to 
stand  jawing  in  front  of  a  lot  of  people  for  an  hour 
at  a  time?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Brauws.  "  I'm  lecturing  on 
Peace." 

"Peace?"  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  his  blue  orbs 


62  THE  LATER  LIFE 

shining  in  wide-eyed  young  amazement  through 
the  blue  haze  of  his  cigarette-smoke.  "  What 
Peace?" 

"Peace,  simply." 

"  You're  getting  at  me,"  cried  Van  der  Welcke. 

Brauws  roared;  and  Van  der  Welcke  too.  They 
laughed  for  quite  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Hans,"  said  Brauws,  "  how  is  it  possible  for  any 
one  to  change  as  little  as  you  have  done?  In  all 
these  years !  You  are  just  as  incapable  as  in  the  old 
days  of  believing  in  anything  serious." 

"  If  you  imagine  that  there's  been  nothing  serious 
in  my  life,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  vexed. 

And,  with  great  solemnity,  he  once  more  told  his 
friend  about  Constance,  about  his  marriage,  his  shat- 
tered career. 

Brauws  smiled. 

"  You  laugh,  as  if  it  all  didn't  matter !  "  cried  Van 
der  Welcke,  angrily. 

"What  does  anything  matter?"  said  Brauws. 

"And  your  old  Peace?" 

"  Very  little  as  yet,  at  any  rate  .  .  .  Perhaps 
later  .  .  .  Luckily,  there's  the  future." 

But  Van  der  Welcke  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
demolished  Peace  in  a  few  ready-made  sentences: 
there  would  always  be  war;  it  was  one  of  those 
Utopian  ideas  .  .  . 

Brauws  only  smiled. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  63 

"  You  must  come  and  dine  one  day,  to  meet  Vrees- 
wijck,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

Brauws'  smile  disappeared  suddenly: 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow,  honestly  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I'm  not  the  man  for  dinners." 

"  It  won't  be  a  dinner.  Only  Vreeswijck.  My 
wife  will  be  very  pleased." 

"  Yes,  but  I  shall  be  putting  your  wife  out  .  .  ." 

"  Not  a  bit.  I'll  see  if  she's  at  home  and  intro- 
duce you  to  her." 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow,  no,  honestly  .  .  .  I'm  no 
ladies'  man.  I'm  nothing  of  a  drawing-room  per- 
son. I  never  know  what  to  say." 

"  You  surely  haven't  grown  shy!  " 

"  Yes,  almost.  With  ladies  ...  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  say.  No,  old  chap,  honestly.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  was  full  of  anxious  dismay. 

"  I  think  it's  mean  of  you,  to  refuse  to  come  and 
dine  with  us,  quite  quietly." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  and  then  it'll  be  a  dinner  of  twenty 
people.  I  know." 

"  I  shouldn't  know  where  to  get  them  from.  We 
see  nobody.  Nobody." 

"  No,  no  ...  Well,  yes,  perhaps  later." 

He  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly,  almost  impa- 
tiently : 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let's  go  for  a  walk.'* 


64  THE  LATER  LIFE 

And,  as  though  fearing  lest  Van  der  Welcke 
should  still  find  a  moment  to  introduce  him  to  his 
wife,  Brauws  hurried  him  down  the  stairs.  Once 
outside,  he  breathed  again,  recovered  his  usual  pla- 
cidity. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"  I  WENT  last  night  with  Van  Vreeswijck  to  hear 
Brauws  speak  at  Diligentia,"  said  Van  der  Welcke, 
one  morning.  "  The  fellow's  inspired.  He  speaks 
extempore  and  magnificently;  he's  an  orator.  A 
splendid  fellow,  the  way  he  spoke:  it  was  astound- 
ing ...  I  knew  him  years  ago  at  Leiden.  He  was 
a  queer  chap  even  then.  He  did  not  belong  to  any 
particular  club,  not  to  ours  either:  his  family  is  no- 
thing out  of  the  way.  His  father  has  a  factory,  I  be- 
lieve, somewhere  in  Overijssel.  He  himself  has 
nothing  of  the  tradesman  about  him.  He  used  to 
coach  us  dull  beggars  and  help  us  get  up  our  exam- 
inations. I  should  never  have  passed  without  him. 
He  knows  about  everything,  he's  not  only  good  at 
law.  He's  read  everything;  he  has  a  tremendous 
memory.  He's  travelled  a  lot  and  done  all  sorts  of 
things,  but  I  can't  find  out  exactly  what.  Now  he's 
lecturing.  This  evening,  he's  lecturing  in  Amster- 
dam. I  asked  him  to  dinner,  but  he  refuses  to  come, 
says  he's  shy  with  ladies.  Silly  fellow!  " 

The  newspapers  printed  lengthy  reports  of 
Brauws'  speeches  on  Peace.  He  spoke  in  all  the 
large  Dutch  towns  and  in  many  of  the  smaller  ones. 
When  he  was  to  speak  at  the  Hague  for  the  second 
time,  Van  der  Welcke  said,  excitedly: 

65 


66  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Constance,  you  must  absolutely  go  and  hear 
Brauws  this  evening.  He's  grand.  You  know,  I 
can  never  listen  to  any  one  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  .  .  ." 

"  Nor  I  for  more  than  three  minutes,"  said  Paul, 
who  was  there.  "  But  I  love  to  talk  for  an  hour 
on  end  myself." 

"  But  Brauws :  the  fellow  electrifies  you.  Though 
I  think  that  Peace  idea  of  his  all  rot.  But  that 
makes  no  difference:  the  chap  speaks  magnificently 
.  .  .  I'm  dining  with  Van  Vreeswijck  and  we're  go- 
ing on  together." 

Paul  asked  Constance  to  go  with  him.  That 
evening,  the  little  hall  of  Diligentia  —  the  proceeds 
were  to  go  to  the  fund  for  the  Boer  wounded  —  was 
full:  Constance  and  Paul  had  difficulty  in  finding 
seats. 

"  All  sorts  of  people,"  Paul  observed.  "  A  cu- 
rious audience.  An  olla  podrida  of  every  set  in  the 
Hague.  Here  and  there,  the  very  select  people 
have  turned  up,  no  doubt  brought  by  Van  Vrees- 
wijck: look,  there  are  the  Van  der  Heuvel  Steijns; 
and  there's  the  French  minister ;  and  there,  as  I  live, 
is  Van  Naghel,  with  his  colleague  from  the  Trea- 
sury .  .  .  And  look,  there's  Isidore  the  hairdresser 
...  A  bit  of  everything,  a  bit  of  everything  .  .  . 
How  brotherly  and  sisterly  the  Hague  has  become 
this  evening:  it  makes  me  feel  quite  sentimental!  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  67 

Brauws  made  his  entrance,  to  faint  applause. 

"  The  fellow's  not  in  evening-dress ;  he's  wearing 
a  frock-coat.  I  suppose  he's  playing  the  demagogue 
or  the  preacher." 

But  he  had  to  stop,  for  Brauws  at  once  began  to 
speak  from  the  rostrum.  He  had  nothing  with 
him,  not  a  note ;  and  his  voice  was  firm  but  very  gen- 
tle. He  began  with  a  masterly  exposition  of  the 
present  political  situation,  sketching  it  in  broad  out- 
lines, like  an  enormous  picture,  for  all  those  people 
in  front  of  him.  His  voice  became  clearer ;  his  eyes 
looked  through  the  hall,  steady  and  bright,  like  two 
shining  stars.  Constance,  who  seldom  read  any  po- 
litical news,  listened,  was  at  once  interested,  won- 
dered vaguely  for  a  moment  that  she  lived  like  that, 
from  day  to  day,  without  knowing  the  times  in  which 
she  lived.  The  present  took  shape  before  her  in 
those  few  sentences  of  Brauws'.  Then  he  spoke  of 
Peace,  which  would  be  essential  sooner  or  later,  which 
was  already  making  its  joyous  way  into  the  mind  of 
the  nations,  even  though  they  were  actually  still  wa- 
ging war  upon  one  another.  It  was  as  though  wide 
and  radiant  vistas  opened  under  his  words;  and  his 
voice,  at  first  so  gentle,  now  rang  through  the  hall, 
triumphantly  confirming  the  glad  tidings.  He  spoke 
without  pausing,  for  two  hours  on  end;  and,  when 
he  stopped,  the  hall  was  breathless  for  a  moment, 
the  audience  forgot  to  cheer.  Then  indeed  applause 


68  THE  LATER  LIFE 

burst  forth,  jubilant;  but  by  that  time  Brauws  was 
gone.  They  called  him  back,  but  he  did  not  return; 
and  the  audience  streamed  out. 

Constance  and  Paul  were  in  the  crush,  when  they 
saw  Van  Vreeswijck  and  Van  der  Welcke  behind 
them. 

"  Mevrouw,"  said  Van  Vreeswijck,  bowing. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  our  friend?  " 

"  Wonderful,"  said  Constance,  excitedly. 

"  The  fellow  speaks  well,"  said  Paul,  "  but  he  is 
too  earnest.  He  means  all  he  says.  People  don't 
like  that  in  the  long  run." 

Van  der  Welcke  protested  vehemently,  as  he 
pushed  through  the  close-packed  crowd,  and  declared 
that  he  was  converted,  that  he  believed  in  Peace. 

They  reached  the  street:  the  hum  of  the  crowd 
floated  through  the  wintry  air. 

"How  excited  our  stolid  Haguers  are!"  said 
Paul. 

"  There's  our  man,"  said  Van  Vreeswijck. 

"  Yes,  there  he  is !  "  exclaimed  Van  der  Welcke. 

And  he  darted  forwards,  stopped  Brauws,  who 
was  walking  fast  and  saw  nobody,  and  seized  his 
hand.  The  others  drew  near.  Van  Vreeswijck, 
out  of  politeness,  stayed  by  Constance,  waved  his 
hand  to  Brauws.  Van  der  Welcke  was  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement: 

"Where  are  you  going?"  they  heard  him  ask 
Brauws.  "To  the  Witte?" 


THE  LATER  LIFE  69 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow,  home." 

"Home?  Can  you  go  home  now?  Won't  you 
come  to  the  Witte  ?  I  say,  do  let  me  introduce  you 
to  my  wife,  to  my  brother-in-law  .  .  ." 

Brauws  started: 

"  No,  Hans,  honestly  .  .  .  No,  no  ...  What's 
the  good?  .  .  ." 

Constance  heard  and  could  not  help  smiling.  She 
walked  on  with  Van  Vreeswijck  and  Paul. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Van  der  Welcke  insisted. 

Brauws  no  doubt  realized  that  Constance  had 
heard,  for  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  despair: 

"  Very  well  then,  Hans  .  .  ." 

"  Constance !  Paul !  "  cried  Van  der  Welcke, 
proud  of  his  friend,  and  caught  them  up. 

He  would  have  liked  to  introduce  Brauws  to  the 
whole  world,  to  the  whole  audience  streaming  out  of 
Diligentia. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you :  my  friend,  Max  Brauws ; 
my  wife;  my  brother-in-law,  Van  Lowe." 

They  shook  hands.  Brauws  remained  standing 
in  front  of  Constance,  shyly  and  awkwardly.  She 
tried  to  pay  him  a  compliment  that  would  not 
sound  too  obvious;  and,  like  the  tactful  woman  that 
she  was,  she  succeeded.  Paul  also  said  something; 
they  walked  on,  Van  Vreeswijck  silently  amused  at 
Van  der  Welcke's  excitement  and  Brauws'  awkward- 
ness. 

"And  are  you  really  going  home?     Won't  you 


70  THE  LATER  LIFE 

come  to  the  Witte  ?  "  Van  der  Welcke  urged,  in  im- 
ploring tones. 

"  My  dear  Hans,  what  would  you  have  me  do  at 
the  Witte?" 

"  So  you're  going  home." 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  home,  but  I'll  walk  a  bit  of  the 
way  with  you." 

And,  wishing  to  appear  polite,  he  bowed  vaguely 
to  Constance,  but  said  nothing  more. 

It  was  a  delightful  winter  evening,  with  a  sharp 
frost  and  a  sky  full  of  twinkling  stars. 

"  I  love  walking,"  said  Constance.  "  When  I've 
heard  anything  fine  —  music,  a  play,  or  a  speech  like 
to-night's  —  I  would  much  rather  walk  than  rattle 
home  in  a  cab." 

"  My  dear  fellow  I  "  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  still 
bubbling  over  with  enthusiasm.  "  You've  converted 
me!  I  believe  in  it,  I  believe  in  that  Peace  of 
yours !  " 

Brauws  gave  a  sudden  bellow. 

'*  There,  now  the  chap's  laughing  at  me  again !  " 
said  Van  der  Welcke,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Well,"  said  Brauws,  "  shall  I  come  and  fetch 
you  in  a  motor  to-morrow,  to  reward  you?  " 

They  all  laughed  this  time. 

"  Have  you  got  one?  "  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  de- 
lightedly. 

"  No,  but  I  can  hire  one,"  said  Brauws.  "  And 
then  you  can  drive." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  71 

"  Can  you  hire  one?  Can  you  hire  one?  "  cried 
Van  der  Welcke,  in  delighted  amazement.  "  And 
may  I  really  drive?  " 

And  forgetting  all  about  Peace,  he  was  soon 
eagerly  discussing  motor-cars  and  motor-cycles  .  .  . 

When  they  reached  the  Kerkhoflaan,  Constance 
asked : 

"  Won't  you  all  come  in  ?  " 

Van  Vreeswijck  and  Paul  said  that  they  would  be 
glad  to  come  and  have  a  glass  of  wine;  but  Brauws 
said: 

"  Mevrouw,  it's  so  late  .  .  ." 

"  Not  for  us." 

"  Come  along,  Max,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

But  Brauws  laughed  his  queer,  soft  laugh  and 
said: 

"  What's  the  good  of  my  coming  in?  .  .  ." 

And  he  went  off,  with  a  shy  bow.  They  all 
laughed. 

"  Really,  Brauws  is  impossible,"  said  Van  Vrees- 
wijck, indignantly. 

"  And  he's  forgotten  to  tell  me  at  what  time  he's 
coming  for  me  with  his  old  sewing-machine  .  .  ." 

But  next  day,  very  early,  in  the  misty  winter  morn- 
ing, the  "  machine  "  came  puffing  and  snorting  and 
exploding  down  the  Kerkhoflaan  and  stopped  at  Van 
der  Welcke's  door  with  a  succession  of  deep-drawn 
sighs  and  spasmodic  gasps,  as  if  to  take  breath  after 
its  exertions;  and  this  monster  as  it  were  of  living 


72  THE  LATER  LIFE 

and  breathing  iron,  odorous  of  petrol  —  the  acrid 
smell  of  its  sweat  —  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  little 
group  of  butchers'-boys  and  orange-hawkers. 
Brauws  stepped  out;  and,  as  Constance  happened  to 
be  coming  downstairs,  she  received  him. 

"  I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen,  mevrouw.  In  these  '  sew- 
ing-machines,' as  Hans  calls  them,  one  becomes  un- 
presentable at  once." 

He  was  shy,  looked  out  at  the  gasping  motor-car 
and  smiled  at  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  round: 

"  I'm  causing  quite  a  tumult  outside  your  door." 

"  They  ought  to  be  used  to  '  sewing-machines  '  at 
the  Hague  by  now." 

"  That's  a  very  graphic  word  of  Hans'." 

They  both  laughed.  She  thought  his  laugh  at- 
tractive and  his  voice  soft  and  restful  to  listen  to. 

"  Mevrouw,"  he  said,  suddenly,  overcoming  his 
bashfulness,  "  I  hope  you  were  not  angry  that  I  was 
so  ungracious  yesterday?  .  .  ." 

"  But  you  weren't  at  all  ungracious." 

"  Yes,  I  was,  very.  But  what  excuse  can  I  make? 
I  have  lost  the  habit  ...  of  just  talking  .  .  ." 

She  smiled: 

"  To  ladies,"  she  said,  jokingly. 

"  Yes,  about  nothing  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  small 
talk  .  .  ." 

"  You  really  needn't  apologize,  Mr.  Brauws. 
You  had  already  said  so  many  delightful  things  last 
night  that  I  can  quite  understand  .  .  ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  73 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  said  nothing  this  morning 
and  .  .  ." 

"  You  wouldn't  know  what  to  say  .  .  .  about 
nothing.  But  please  don't  trouble  .  .  .  and  make 
yourself  at  home.  Henri  will  be  down  in  a  minute; 
he  is  very  worried  at  not  being  ready." 

In  fact,  they  heard  Van  der  Welcke  upstairs, 
dressing  excitedly;  he  was  rushing  madly  round  his 
room  and  shouting: 

"Addie!  Addiel  Pick  me  out  a  tie!  Do  be 
quick,  boy !  " 

And  Constance  rose  to  go.     Brauws  stopped  her : 

"  Mevrouw,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  Hans  asked 
me  to  dinner." 

"  And  you  refused  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I'm  such  a  bear.  Don't  be  angry 
and  don't  let  Hans  be  angry  either  and  let  me  come 
and  dine  with  you  one  day." 

"  So  you're  inviting  yourself?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Very  well;  we  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you. 
When  will  you  come  ?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like." 

"  To-morrow?  " 

"  With  great  pleasure." 

"  Would  you  rather  come  alone,  or  shall  I  ask 
Van  Vreeswijck  to  meet  you?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,  Van  Vreeswijck  .  .  ." 

"  And  nobody  else." 


74  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  No,  nobody.     But  I  musn't  dictate  to  you." 

"  Why  shouldn't  you,  in  this  case?  " 

Van  der  Welcke  came  rushing  down  the  stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  Addie : 

"  This  is  jolly  of  you,  Max  1  Let's  have  a  look  at 
the  old  machine.  She's  a  first-rater  1  And  here's 
my  boy  .  .  .  Addie,  eat  a  bit  of  bread  and  butter, 
quick;  then  we'll  drop  you  at  your  school." 

Addie  laughed,  quietly  ate  his  bread  and  butter 
without  sitting  down: 

"  I've  lots  of  time,"  he  said. 

"  So  much  the  better  .  .  .  we'll  drive  you  round 
a  bit  first.  Quick,  quick!  Take  your  bread  and 
butter  with  you  in  your  hand !  " 

He  rushed  like  a  madman  through  the  dining- 
room  and  hall,  hunted  for  his  hat,  couldn't  find  it, 
shouted  up  the  stairs,  made  Truitje  look  all  over 
the  place  for  his  gloves,  created  a  breezy  draught 
all  through  the  house.  At  last,  he  was  ready: 

"  If  only  I  can  manage  the  old  sewing-machine ! 
.  .  .  Tock-tock-tock-tock,  tock-tock-tock-tock  1  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  Constance  .  .  ." 

He  shoved  Addie  in  front  of  him,  made  him  get 
into  the  car,  settled  himself: 

"  We're  off,  Brauws!" 

"  Good-bye,  mevrouw.     Till  to-morrow  then !  " 

He  ran  out.  Constance  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow :  they  drove  off,  with  Addie  between  them,  wa- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  75 

ving  his  Hand  to  her,  while  Brauws  was  showing  Van 
der  Welcke  —  much  too  quick,  too  wild,  too  im- 
patient —  how  to  work  the  "  sewing-machine  "  and 
obviously  asking  him  to  be  careful  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  X 

CONSTANCE  had  invited  Van  Vreeswijck  at  the  last 
moment  and  he  was  engaged,  so  that  Brauws  was  the 
only  guest.  Though  Constance  usually  gave  a  deal 
of  thought  to  her  little  dinners,  she  received  Brauws 
quite  simply,  treating  him  as  one  of  themselves ;  and 
Addie  dined  with  them. 

"  And  now  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  all 
these  years?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

Brauws  tried  to  tell  him,  but  kept  on  hesitating,  as 
though  under  a  strange  compulsion.  His  father  was 
a  manufacturer,  owning  big  iron-works  in  Overijssel, 
and  still  carried  on  that  huge  business  with  Brauws' 
two  elder  brothers,  who  were  married  to  two  sisters, 
the  daughters  of  another  manufacturer,  owning  a  cot- 
ton-mill in  the  same  district.  But  Max,  who  had 
been  a  queer  boy  from  a  child,  had  from  a  child  felt 
repelled  by  all  that  factory-life  of  masters  and  men, 
as  he  saw  it  around  him ;  and  his  father,  recognizing 
his  exceptional  intelligence,  had  sent  him  to  college, 
hoping  that  in  this  way  he  would  carve  out  an  hon- 
ourable career  for  himself  among  his  fellow-men. 
Max  was  fond  of  study  and  studied  long  and  hard, 
for  the  sake  of  study.  At  Leiden,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Van  Vreeswijck,  Van  der  Welcke  and 
other  young  sprigs  of  the  aristocracy,  who  would 

76 


THE  LATER  LIFE  77 

gladly  have  admitted  him  to  their  club,  putting  up 
with  him  because  he  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend 
and  because  he  was  clever  and  it  amused  him  to  help 
them  in  their  examinations.  Van  der  Welcke  and 
Van  Vreeswijck  had  learnt  to  value  his  friendship, 
but  nevertheless  lost  sight  of  him  afterwards,  think- 
ing that  he  had  joined  his  brothers  after  all  and  was 
managing  the  factory  with  them.  And,  even  as 
they,  as  youths,  had  hardly  known  their  friend  more 
than  superficially,  so  they  did  not  know,  on  leaving 
Leiden,  that  Max  had  not  gone  to  Overijssel  — 
where  his  father  would  have  liked  to  marry  him  to 
the  third  daughter  of  the  father-in-law  of  his  two 
other  sons  —  but  to  America,  to  "  seek." 

"Well,  but  to  seek  what?"  Van  der  Welcke 
asked,  failing  to  understand  what  a  rich  youth  could 
want  to  seek  in  America,  if  he  did  not  see  some  idea, 
some  plan,  some  object  plainly  outlined  before 
him. 

Brauws  now  confessed  that  at  the  time  he  scarcely 
knew  what  he  had  gone  to  seek,  in  America.  He 
admitted  that  his  father,  the  iron-master,  had  hoped 
that  Max  would  form  industrial  connections  in 
America  which  would  have  benefited  the  factory. 
But  Max  had  formed  no  connections  at  all. 

;' Then  what  did  you  do?"  asked  Van  der 
Welcke. 

And  Brauws  smiled  his  strange,  gentle  smile,  in 
which  there  gleamed  a  touch  of  irony  and  compas- 


78  THE  LATER  LIFE 

sion  —  with  himself,  or  the  world,  or  both  —  a' 
smile  which  sometimes  broke  into  his  big,  resonant 
laugh.  He  smiled  and  at  last  said,  very  slowly : 

"  But  I  hardly  dare  confess  to  you,  my  dear  Hans, 
what  I  did  in  America.  I  don't  talk  about  that  time 
as  a  rule,  because  it  all  sounds  so  strange,  now  that 
I  am  sitting  at  table  with  you  and  your  wife  and 
your  son.  Perhaps,  if  I  tell  you  what  I  did  do  in 
America,  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke,  after  the  first  shock; 
of  surprise,  will  shudder  at  having  invited  such  a 
queer  person  to  her  table  and  probably  think  me 
a  very  bad  example  for  Addie.  So  don't  let's  talk 
about  myself  or  what  I  did  in  America." 

But  Van  der  Welcke  had  grown  inquisitive : 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow,  you  sha'n't  get  out  of  it 
like  that.  I  can't  imagine  that  you  did  anything  in 
America  that  Addie  mustn't  hear  about;  and  in  any 
case  he  needn't  take  you  for  his  model.  But  I'm 
burning  with  curiosity  and  I  insist  on  knowing  what 
you  were  up  to  in  America.  Not  lecturing  on  Peace 
all  the  time?  .  .  ." 

"  No,  not  even  once." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  But,  Hans,  what's  the  good  of  talking  about  my- 
self to  this  extent?  " 

"  We're  all  interested,  Mr.  Brauws,"  said  Con- 
stance. "  We  certainly  are.  But,  if  you  would 
rather  not  talk  about  those  days,  we  will  not  be  in- 
discreet." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  79 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  impa- 
tiently. "  By  Jingo,  I  will  be  indiscreet.  Max,  I 
must  know  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Max  Brauws,  very  simply  and 
shyly,  as  though  he  were  making  an  apology.  "  At 
the  risk  of  your  wife's  never  asking  me  to  her  house 
again:  I  was  a  porter." 

They  all  three  looked  at  him  and  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"A  porter?"  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

"A  porter?"  asked  Constance. 

"  Yes,  mevrouw :  just  a  porter  and  dock-labourer." 

"A  dock-labourer?"  asked  Van  der  Welcke, 
thinking,  from  Max  Brauws'  quiet  voice,  that  he  had 
suddenly  gone  mad. 

"  Yes,  Hans;  and,  later  on,  I  worked  as  a  stoker 
in  an  iron-works,  like  my  father's." 

"  As  a  stoker?  "  asked  Constance. 

1  Yes,  mevrouw,  as  a  stoker  in  a  factory.  And 
then,  afterwards,  as  an  engine-driver.  And  then  — 
but  that  was  very  hard  work  —  I  was  a  miner  for  a 
short  time;  but  then  I  fell  ill." 

"A  miner?"  asked  Van  der  Welcke,  in  a  blank 
voice,  dazed  with  astonishment. 

And  at  last,  recovering  from  the  astonishment,  he 
burst  out: 

"  Look  here,  Max,  if  you  want  to  talk  seriously, 
do;  but  don't  go  pulling  my  leg  and  making  a  fool 
of  me  to  my  face.  I  don't  understand  a  word  of 


8o  THE  LATER  LIFE 

what  you're  saying,  unless  I'm  to  suppose  that  your 
father  was  angry  with  you  and  gave  you  no  money 
and  that  you  had  to  work  for  your  bread,  perhaps. 
But  that  you  were  a  porter  .  .  ." 

"  And  dock-labourer,"  said  Constance. 

"  And  engine-driver  and  miner,  that  I  refuse  to 
believe,  unless  your  father  .  .  ." 

"  My  dear  Hans,  my  father  used  to  send  me  the 
same  allowance  that  he  made  me  at  the  university: 
three  hundred  guilders  a  month." 

"And  .  .  .?" 

"  And  I  used  the  money  .  .  .  for  other  things ; 
but  I  lived  on  my  wages,  like  a  labourer,  as  I  really 
was.  You  see,  you  can't  understand  that ;  and,  as  I 
feared,  your  wife  thinks  it  horrible  to  be  sitting  at 
table  with  a  man  who  has  been  a  porter,  a  dock- 
labourer  and  a  stoker  .  .  ." 

"  And  a  miner,"  added  Van  der  Welcke. 

And  he  shut  his  eyes,  as  though  he  had  received  a 
blow  on  the  head. 

"  But,  mevrouw,"  said  Brauws,  with  his  quiet 
smile,  "  my  hands,  although  they  are  not  delicate, 
have  become  fit  to  show  again,  as  you  see." 

And  he  showed  his  hands,  big,  powerful  hands, 
probably  developed  by  manual  labour,  but  now 
neither  coarse  nor  hard. 

"  But  can  you  explain  to  me,"  asked  Constance, 
with  a  little  laugh,  "  why  you  worked  in  those 
various  humble  capacities?  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  81 

"  Shall  we  say,  mevrouw,  for  the  sake  of  being 
eccentric?"  replied  Brauws,  almost  coldly.  "And 
then  we  will  talk  no  more  about  myself.  Tell  me 
instead  about  Addie.  Hans  was  saying  the  other 
day  that  his  ambition  was  to  enter  the  diplomatic 
service  .  .  ." 

But  a  certain  constraint  seemed  involuntarily  to 
make  the  conversation  flag,  as  though  both  host  and 
hostess  were  unable  to  understand  their  guest  at  all, 
as  though  some  one  of  another  class  had  actually 
strayed  by  accident  into  their  dining-room,  into  the 
home  of  these  born  aristocrats ;  and  Constance,  per- 
ceiving this,  not  only  wanted  to  avoid  that  constraint, 
but  also  a  deeper  feeling  of  invincible  sympathy 
made  her  regret  almost  unconsciously  any  misunder- 
standing or  unpleasantness  that  might  arise  between 
that  strange  man  and  Henri  or  herself.  This  deeper 
feeling  was  so  faint  and  unconscious  that,  at  the  mo- 
ment, she  saw  in  it  only  her  wish,  as  hostess,  to  make 
the  passing  hour  as  agreeable  as  possible  for  her 
guest;  and  she  did  not  hear  the  deeper  note  in  her 
voice  when  she  said,  with  that  candour  and  sincerity 
which  at  times  gave  her  an  exquisitely  feminine 
charm: 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  indeed,  Mr.  Brauws,  if 
you  refused  to  go  on  speaking  of  yourself.  You  are 
an  old  and  intimate  friend  of  Henri's;  and,  now 
that  you  two  have  met  again,  it  would  be  a  pity  if  you 
refused  to  talk  about  the  years  when  you  did  not  see 


82  THE  LATER  LIFE 

each  other.  But  I  am  not  speaking  only  for  my 
husband,  who  will  speak  for  himself:  I  am  speaking 
especially  for  my  own  sake.  When  I  heard  you 
lecturing  on  Peace  the  other  day  —  on  something 
which  I  had  really  never  thought  about,  though  I  had 
heard  the  word  vaguely  mentioned  by  people  now 
and  then  —  your  speech  really  roused  ...  a  sort 
of  interest  in  me;  and  I  listened  with  keen  sympathy; 
and  afterwards  I  thought  about  that  word.  And, 
now  that  you  tell  us  that  you  have  been  a  common 
workman  in  America,  I  am  very  much  interested  to 
know  how  you  came  to  adopt  a  life  so  very  different 
from  that  of  the  men  in  my  set;  and,  if  it  is  not  too 
indiscreet,  I  should  like  to  ask  you,  as  a  favour,  to 
speak  about  yourself  and  explain  what  at  present 
seems  so  perplexing  to  me  .  .  ." 

The  simple,  homely  meal  was  finished;  and  they 
went  into  the  drawing-room. 

"May  I  stay,  Mamma?"  asked  Addle,  who 
never  accompanied  them  to  the  drawing-room  when 
there  was  a  stranger  present. 

She  laughed;  and  Van  der  Welcke  said: 

"  You  see,  even  my  boy  is  curious." 

"  Our  future  diplomatist!  "  said  Brauws,  with  his 
quiet  smile.  u  Well,  mevrouw,  may  he  stay  or 
not?" 

"  Of  course  he  may  stay!  " 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  that  the  ideas  of  ...  a  la- 
bouring-man will  spoil  him?  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  83 

"  Oh,  there's  no  spoiling  my  boy!  "  said  she,  lift- 
ing her  head  high  and  putting  her  arm  round  Addie's 
shoulder  with  motherly  pride. 

"  And  you  don't  make  him  vain,  by  saying  that?  " 

"  There's  no  making  him  vain,"  she  continued, 
boasting  a  little,  like  a  proud  mother. 

"  So  he  can  stay?  "  asked  Brauws. 

"  He  can  stay." 

"  Well,  in  that  case  I  shall  tell  you  more  about 
myself." 

"Only  in  that  case?" 

"  You  are  giving  me  a  proof  of  confidence  and,  I 
might  almost  say,  of  sympathy." 

Van  der  Welcke  took  his  friend  by  the  shoulders : 

"  My  dear  Max,  you  pretend  that  you  don't  know 
how  to  talk  to  *  ladies '  and  there  you  stand,  like  a 
typical  courtier,  paying  compliments  to  my  wife. 
That's  all  superfluous,  you  know:  here's  a  cup  of 
coffee;  sit  down,  make  yourself  at  home,  choose  your 
own  chair;  and  now,  Mr.  Miner,  tell  your  Mad 
Hans  how,  when  you  were  in  America,  you  went 
even  madder  than  he." 

But  Brauws  was  obviously  still  seeking  subter- 
fuges, as  though  it  were  impossible  for  him  to  in- 
terpret the  riddle  of  his  former  existence  to  these 
people  who  were  entertaining  him  so  kindly;  and  at 
last  he  half  managed  to  escape  their  pressing  cu- 
riosity by  saying: 

"  But  I  can't  possibly  tell  you  all  that  straight 


84  THE  LATER  LIFE 

away  .  .  .  Perhaps  later,  mevrouw,  when  I  have 
known  you  a  little  longer,  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you 
about  that  time,  so  that  you  may  understand  it  after 
a  fashion." 

Constance  was  disappointed,  but  she  said,  with  a 
smile : 

"  Then  I  must  exercise  patience." 

"  But  I  exercise  no  patience,"  said  Van  der 
Welcke.  "  Tell  us  now,  Max :  when  you  left  Leiden, 
after  taking  your  degree  in  law,  a  year  before  I 
did — 'but  you  were  much  older  than  I,  an  older 
student  who  really  studied,  a  rara  avis!  —  what  did 
you  do  then?  " 

"  I  first  went  back  to  my  father  and  my  brothers, 
to  the  factory.  And  then  I  took  such  an  aversion 
to  the  whole  thing,  to  all  that  we  represented,  my 
father,  my  brothers  and  I,  that  I  determined  to  go 
and  lead  an  entirely  different  life.  I  saw  that, 
though  my  father  and  brothers  were  comparatively 
good  to  their  workmen,  those  workmen  remained 
slaves;  and  we  .  .  ." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead: 

"  How  can  I  and  why  should  I  talk  about  all  this, 
my  dear  Hans?"  he  said,  gently  interrupting  him- 
self. "You  wouldn't  understand  me;  nor  you 
either,  mevrouw  .  .  ." 

"Why  shouldn't  we  understand  you?"  asked 
Constance. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  85 

His  voice  assumed  a  rough  tone  that  almost 
frightened  her: 

"  Because  both  of  you,  you  and  Hans,  are  capi- 
talists —  and  titled  capitalists  at  that  —  and  because 
I  ...  But  I  don't  want  to  be  rude  to  my  host  and 
hostess." 

"  Capitalists  without  capital,"  said  Van  der 
Welcke,  laughing. 

Brauws  shrugged  his  shoulders : 

"  There  are  more  of  them  than  you  think,"  he 
said. 

"  So  really  you're  among  enemies  here,"  said 
Constance,  in  her  drawing-room  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  "  for  he  in  his  turn 
has  deserted  to  the  capitalists,  even  the  titled  ones." 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Brauws,  quietly,  "  though  I  ad- 
mit that  I  have  been  weak." 

"  I  won't  press  you  any  more,  Mr.  Brauws,"  said 
Constance;  but  her  voice  urged  him  to  continue. 

"  Don't  look  upon  yourself  and  Henri  as  my  ene- 
mies, mevrouw,"  said  Brauws,  earnestly.  "  Above 
all  things,  I  should  like  to  see  nothing  but  friendship 
in  this  world  of  ours.  But  you  were  asking  me  about 
America:  well,  when  I  had  lived  for  a  short  time 
with  my  father  and  my  brothers  in  our  big  house  near 
the  factory,  it  became  too  much  for  me;  and  I  went 
away,  to  lead  my  life  just  as  if  I  had  been  born 
among  workmen  ...  so  as  to  study  them  more 


86  THE  LATER  LIFE 

closely,  do  you  understand?  .  .  .  No,  you  don't  un- 
derstand; and  how  can  I  go  on?  .  .  ." 

"  Max,  you're  being  dull.  And  you're  absurd 
too." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Hans,  I  simply  can't  talk  about  my- 
self: you  see,  I've  tried  to,  two  or  three  times  over." 

"  Then  we  won't  worry  you  any  more,"  said  Con- 
stance. 

A  constraint  seemed  to  have  come  upon  them, 
a  barrier  which  rose  between  their  words  at 
every  moment.  Addie,  disappointed,  left  the  room 
quietly.  In  a  little  while,  Brauws  took  his  leave, 
awkwardly,  almost  rudely.  Constance  and  Van  der 
Welcke  exchanged  a  glance  when  they  were  alone. 
Van  der  Welcke  shook  his  head : 

"The  fellow's  mad,"  he  said.  "Always  was; 
but,  since  he's  joined  the  proletariats  in  America, 
he's  stark,  staring  mad.  He  was  so  jolly  yesterday, 
coming  with  that  old  sewing-machine.  He  is  a  good 
sort,  there's  something  nice  about  him.  But  he's 
quite  mad.  Vreeswijck  is  much  better  company. 
We  won't  ask  him  again:  what  do  you  say,  Con- 
stance? The  fellow's  really  mad;  and,  besides,  he 
doesn't  know  how  to  talk  and,  when  all  is  said,  he 
was  impertinent,  with  his  '  titled  capitalists.'  In- 
deed, I  ought  really  to  apologize  to  you  for  asking 
such  a  queer  fish  to  your  house." 

"  He  is  different  from  other  people,"  she  said, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  87 

"  but  I  think  that,  however  much  he  may  differ  from 
you,  he  likes  you." 

Her  husband  burst  out  irritably: 

"  You  women,"  he  exclaimed,  "  are  simply  impos- 
sible! Who  would  ever  have  thought  that  you 
could  have  found  a  word  of  excuse  for  Brauws! 
Why,  I  was  afraid  that  you  would  cover  me  with 
reproaches  and  point  out  to  me  that,  even  though 
we  see  nobody,  you  wouldn't  want  to  receive  a  social- 
ist friend  of  mine.  But  there's  no  understanding 
women!  " 

He  was  dissatisfied,  out  of  temper,  because  of 
Brauws  and  that  spasmodic  conversation;  and  his 
tone  seemed  to  invite  a  scene.  But  Constance  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  very  calmly  and  said,  so  gently  and 
quietly  that  the  voice  did  not  sound  like  hers  to  his 
ears: 

"  Henri,  your  friend  Brauws  is  a  man  and  an  ex- 
ceptional man;  and  that  is  enough  to  captivate  a 
woman  for  a  moment." 

"  Well,  you  can  ask  him  every  day,   for  all  I 


care." 


11 1  didn't  ask  him." 

"No,  I  did,  of  course!" 

"  Don't  let  us  quarrel,  Henri.  Mr.  Brauws  asked 
himself.  But,  if  you  would  rather  not  see  any 
more  of  him,  we  won't  encourage  him  again;  and 
then  he'll  stay  away  of  his  own  accord  .  .  ." 


88  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Her  gentle  words,  which  he  did  not  understand, 
disturbed  him  greatly;  and  he  went  upstairs  in  a 
temper,  undressed  angrily  and  flung  himself  on 
his  bed: 

"  And,  upon  my  word,  he'd  be  upsetting  Addie's 
head  next,  with  those  queer  notions,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  dug  his  ear  viciously  into  his  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FEW  days  had  passed,  when  Brauws  rang  at  the 
door,  late  one  afternoon.  Constance  was  sitting  in 
the  drawing-room  and  saw  him  through  the  corner 
window;  and,  as  she  heard  the  bell,  she  felt  a  shock 
of  alarm.  She  was  afraid,  she  did  not  know  why, 
and  listened  anxiously  to  his  deep  voice  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

"  Is  meneer  at  home?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Perhaps  mevrouw  is  at  home?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  mevrouw  is  in.     I'll  just  ask  .  .  ." 

Truitje  entered: 

"  Mr.  Brauws,  ma'am  .  .  ." 

"  Show  meneer  in." 

She  still  felt  her  heart  beating  with  that  strange, 
inexplicable  shock  of  alarm.  And  she  thought  that 
it  was  because  she  was  alone  with  that  strange  man, 
who  had  been  a  workman  in  America  and  who 
could  say  such  rude  things  sometimes,  suddenly. 

They  shook  hands: 

"  Henri  is  out,"  she  said.  "  But  sit  down.  I  see 
in  the  paper  that  you  are  speaking  at  Arnhem  to- 


90  THE  LATER  LIFE 

my  lectures.  I've  come  to  make  you  my  very  hum- 
ble apologies." 

"What  for?" 

"  Mevrouw,  I'm  a  bear.  I  don't  know  how  to 
talk  to  people.  Forgive  me  .  .  .  for  what  I  said 
the  other  day." 

"  But  what  did  you  say?" 

"  Nothing  —  after  your  friendly  encouragement 
—  but  what  was  rude." 

"  I  have  no  great  reverence  for  titles,"  she  said, 
quickly. 

She  said  it  so  suddenly  and  spontaneously  that  it 
surprised  even  herself;  and  she  asked  herself,  the 
next  second: 

"  Why  do  I  say  that?  And  is  it  true,  now?  Or 
is  it  not  true?  " 

She  herself  did  not  know. 

"  You  haven't,  perhaps,  but  Hans  has  .  .  .  But 
I  was  rude  especially  because,  after  you  had  asked 
me  so  kindly  and  graciously,  I  still  would  not  talk 
about  my  life." 

"  But  you  were  to  do  that  when  we  knew  each 
other  better  .  .  ." 

"  People  never  know  each  other  well.     Still  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  May  I  tell  you  something 
about  myself  from  time  to  time?  Perhaps  it  won't 
interest  you  as  much  as,  from  politeness,  you  wish 
me  to  think;  but  .  .  .  when  I've  done  it  ...  I 


THE  LATER  LIFE  91 

shall  feel  relieved  .  .  .  Heavens,  how  difficult 
words  are !  " 

"  And  yet  you  are  accustomed  to  speak  for 
hours!  .  .  ." 

"  That's  a  different  thing.  Then  some  one  else 
is  speaking  inside  me.  When  I  myself  am  speak- 
ing, in  everyday  life,  I  find  words  difficult." 

"  Then  don't  make  the  least  effort,  but  tell  me 
.  .  .  gradually." 

"  What  did  Addie  think  ?     I  should  like  to  know." 

"  He  was  disappointed,  but  he  did  not  say  much." 

"He's  a  serious  boy,  isn't  he?  Tell  me  about 
him." 

She  felt  no  more  fear  and  talked  about  Addie. 
Brauws  laughed,  gently  and  kindly,  at  the  pride  that 
kept  shining  from  her: 

"  I  was  a  serious  child  too,"  he  said. 

And  she  understood  that  he  was  making  an  effort, 
in  order  to  talk  about  himself. 

"  I  was  a  strange  child.  Behind  our  house  was  a 
pine-forest,  with  hills  in  it;  and  behind  that  a  little 
stream.  I  used  to  wander  all  day  long  in  those 
woods,  over  the  hills  and  beside  the  stream.  They 
would  miss  me  at  home  and  look  for  me  and  find 
me  there.  But  gradually  they  stopped  being  fright- 
ened, because  they  understood  that  I  was  only  play- 
ing. I  used  to  play  by  myself:  a  lonely,  serious 
child.  It's  true  I  played  at  highwaymen  and  pirates ; 
and  yet  my  games  were  very  serious,  not  like  a  child's 


92  THE  LATER  LIFE 

...  I  still  feel  a  thrill  when  I  think  of  that  strange 
childhood  of  mine  ...  I  used  to  play  there  in 
those  woods  and  beside  that  stream,  in  Holland; 
but  sometimes  I  imagined  that  I  was  playing  at  pi- 
rates and  highwaymen  in  America,  or  in  the  tropics. 
And  in  my  childish  imagination  the  whole  Dutch 
landscape  changed.  It  became  a  roaring  river,  with 
great  boulders,  from  which  the  water  fell  foaming, 
and  very  dense,  tropical  foliage,  such  as  I  had  seen 
in  pictures;  and  great  flowers,  red  and  white,  grew 
in  the  enormous  trees.  Then  my  fancy  changed 
and  I  was  no  longer  a  pirate  or  robber,  but  became 
...  an  oriental  prince.  I  don't  know  why  I,  a 
pure-bred  Dutch  boy,  should  have  had  that  strange 
vision  of  the  east,  of  something  tropical,  there,  on 
those  pine-covered  hills  and  beside  that  little  stream 
.  .  .  It  was  always  like  that  afterwards:  the  tropi- 
cal landscape,  the  spreading  cocoa-trees,  the  broad 
plantain-leaves  and  the  huge  flowers,  white  and 
red  .  .  .  and  then  I  often  thought,  '  Now  I  will 
find  her.'  Whom  I  wanted  to  find  I  didn't  know; 
but  I  would  run  down  the  hills  and  roam  be- 
side the  little  river  and  seek  and  seek  .  .  .  and  my 
seeking  for  '  her '  became  strange  and  fantastic :  I, 
an  oriental,  was  seeking  for  a  fairy,  or  a  princess,  I 
forget  which.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  were  run- 
ning there  ahead  of  me,  very  white  and  fragile:  a 
little  child,  as  I  was  a  child;  a  girl,  as  I  was  a  boy; 
in  white  and  decked  with  the  flowers,  white  and  red 


THE  LATER  LIFE  93 

.  .  .  And  my  seeking  for  the  princess,  for  the  fairy, 
for  the  little  white,  fragile  girl  became  so  intense 
that  I  sometimes  thought  I  had  found  her,  found 
her  in  my  imagination;  and  then  I  would  speak  to 
her,  as  in  a  dream  .  .  .  Until  .  .  .  until  I  woke 
from  my  waking  dream  and  remembered  that  I  had 
been  wandering  away  from  home  for  hours,  that 
my  mother  would  be  anxious,  that  I  was  not  fit  to  be 
seen,  that  I  looked  like  a  dirty  street-boy,  that  I  had 
only  been  dreaming,  that  there  were  no  white  or  red 
flowers  around  me  .  .  .  and  then  I  would  cry,  boy 
of  thirteen  though  I  was,  passionately,  as  if  I  should 
go  mad  .  .  .  And  I  have  never  told  all  this  to  any 
one,  but  I  am  telling  it  to  you,  because  I  want  to 
ask  you:  Addle  is  not  like  that,  is  he?  When  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  how  children  differ,  at  that 
age!" 

She  sat  on  her  chair,  very  pale,  and  could  not 
speak. 

"  My  parents  did  not  know  that  I  was  like  that; 
and  I  told  nobody  about  my  fancies.  I  went  to 
school,  in  the  meantime,  and  was  just  the  usual  sort 
of  schoolboy.  I  was  cruel  to  animals,  a  vulgar  little 
rascal,  in  the  meantime;  and  it  was  only  in  those 
free  hours  that  I  wandered  and  dreamt.  And,  when 
I  now  look  at  your  boy,  who  is  like  a  little  man,  I 
sometimes  think,  how  is  it  possible  that  he  is  like 
this  and  that  I  was  like  that,  at  the  same  age?  " 

She  made  an  effort  to  smile. 


94  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  So  you  see,'*  he  said,  "  gradually  perhaps  I 
shall  be  able  to  tell  you  something  about  my  life  .  .  . 
at  least,  if  it  interests  you  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  as  if  his  first  confession  had  in  fact 
given  him  a  greater  facility,  for  of  his  own  accord  he 
now  went  on  talking:  how,  when  he  grew  a  year  or 
two  older,  he  had  shaken  those  fancies  from  him  as 
so  much  child's-play  and  devoted  himself  seriously 
to  every  kind  of  study,  until  he  went  to  the  univer- 
sity, where  he  not  only  read  law,  but  really  took 
up  all  the  other  faculties  in  between,  while  at  the 
same  time  he  felt  attracted  by  every  branch  of 
knowledge : 

"  I  was  a  ready  learner  and  a  quick  reader;  I  re- 
membered everything;  and  I  had  a  sort  of  fever  to 
know  everything  in  the  world,  to  know  all  there  was 
to  know  and  learn.  That  I  afterwards  went 
and  travelled  goes  almost  without  saying.  And 
then  .  .  ." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Van  der  Welcke  en- 
tered. He  was  at  first  surprised,  almost  annoyed 
to  see  Brauws;  but  his  warm  friendship  gained  the 
upper  hand: 

"  Hullo,  anarchist!  "  he  said.     "  Is  that  you?  " 

But  it  was  very  late;  Addie  came  in;  it  was  close 
upon  dinner-time.  Brauws  said  good-bye  and  prom- 
ised to  come  again  and  fetch  Van  der  Welcke  in  a 
"  machine;  "  and  that  made  up  for  everything  to  Van 
der  Welcke. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  a  howling  winter  night  of  storm  and  rain. 
Addle  was  doing  his  lessons  after  dinner;  and  Van 
der  Welcke  had  gone  to  sit  by  him  with  a  book  "  be- 
cause there  was  such  a  draught  in  his  room."  Con- 
stance was  all  alone.  And  she  loved  the  loneliness 
of  it  just  then.  She  had  taken  up  a  book,  a  piece  of 
needlework;  but  first  one  and  then  the  other  had 
slipped  from  her  hands.  And,  in  the  soft  light  of 
the  lace-shaded  lamps,  she  lay  back  in  her  chair  and 
listened  to  the  melancholy  storm  outside,  which 
seemed  to  be  rushing  past  the  house  like  some  mon- 
strous animal.  She  was  in  a  mood  of  vague  excite- 
ment, of  mingled  nervousness  and  depression;  and, 
in  her  loneliness,  she  let  this  strange  feeling  take  pos- 
session of  her  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  quite  new 
luxury  of  thinking  about  herself,  wondering  dimly: 

"  Does  that  sort  of  thing  really  exist?  " 

She  found  no  answer  to  her  question;  she  heard 
only  the  storm  raging  outside,  the  hiss  of  its  lash 
round  the  groaning  trees;  and  those  mournful  voices 
of  the  night  did  not  include  the  mystic  voice  which 
alone  could  have  supplied  the  answer. 

"  Does  that  sort  of  thing  really  exist?  "  she  asked 
herself  again. 

And,  in  that  vague  emotion,  she  was  conscious  of 

95 


96  THE  LATER  LIFE 

a  sense  of  fear,  of  a  rising  anxiety,  an  Increasing 
terror.  When,  after  a  lull,  the  storm  burst  into 
sudden  fury  again,  she  started  violently,  as  she  had 
started  when  Brauws'  hand  rang  the  bell  .  .  . 

With  each  shriller  howl  of  the  raging  storm  she 
started;  and  each  fresh  alarm  left  her  so  nervous 
and  so  strangely  despondent  that  she  could  not  un- 
derstand herself  .  .  . 

"  Does  that  sort  of  thing  really  exist  then?  "  she 
asked  herself  for  the  third  time. 

And  the  question  seemed  each  time  to  echo  through 
her  soul  like  a  refrain.  She  could  never  have 
thought,  suspected  or  imagined  that  such  things 
really  existed.  She  did  not  remember  ever  reading 
about  them  or  ever  talking  to  anybody  about  them. 
It  had  never  been  her  nature  to  attach  much  impor- 
tance to  the  strange  coincidences  of  life,  because 
they  had  never  harmonized  in  her  life  with  those  of 
other  lives;  at  least,  she  did  not  know  about  them, 
did  not  remember  them  .  .  .  For  a  moment,  it 
flashed  through  her  mind  that  she  had  walked  as  the 
blind  walk,  all  her  life,  in  a  pitch-dark  night  .  .  . 
and  that  to-day  suddenly  a  light  had  shone  out  be- 
fore her  and  a  ruddy  glow  had  filtered  through  her 
closed  eyelids. 

"  No,"  she  thought,  "  in  those  things  I  have  al- 
ways been  very  much  of  a  woman;  and  I  have  never 
thought  about  them.  If  by  chance  I  ever  heard 
about  them,  they  did  not  attract  me.  Then  why  do 


THE  LATER  LIFE  97 

they  strike  me  so  forcibly  now  ?  And  why  do  I  feel 
so  strange?  .  .  ." 

The  wind  suddenly  cried  aloud,  like  the  martyred 
soul  of  some  monster;  and  she  started,  but  forced 
herself  to  concentrate  her  thoughts : 

"  He  can't  know,"  she  thought.  "  What  can  he 
know,  to  make  him  speak  deliberately  ...  of  those 
childish  years?  No,  he  can't  know;  and  I  felt  that 
he  did  not  know,  that  he  was  only  speaking  in  order 
to  compare  himself  with  Addie  to  Addie's  mother, 
in  a  burst  of  confidence.  He  is  a  man  of  impulses, 
I  think  .  .  .  No,  there  was  nothing  at  the  back  of 
his  words  .  .  .  and  he  knows  nothing,  nothing 
of  my  own  early  years  .  .  .  We  are  almost  the 
same  age :  he  is  four  years  older  than  Henri.  When 
he  was  a  child,  I  was  a  child.  When  he  was  dream- 
ing, I  was  dreaming.  Does  that  sort  of  thing  really 
exist?  Or  is  it  my  fancy,  some  unconscious  vein  of 
poetry  inside  me,  that  is  making  me  imagine  all  this  ? 
.  .  .  Hush,  hush  ...  it  is  becoming  absurd !  It  is 
all  very  pretty  and  charming  in  children:  they  can 
have  their  day-dreams;  and  a  young  man  and  a 
young  girl  might  perhaps  give  a  thought  to  them 
afterwards,  in  a  romantic  moment;  but,  at  my  age, 
it  all  becomes  absurd,  utterly  absurd  .  .  .  And  of 
course  it's  not  there :  it's  nothing  but  a  chance  coinci- 
dence. I  won't  think  about  it  any  more  .  .  .  And 
yet  ...  I  have  never  felt  before  as  I  do  now.  Oh, 
that  feeling  as  if  I  had  always  been  straying,  blindly, 


98  THE  LATER  LIFE 

with  my  eyes  shut,  in  a  dark  night!  Have  I  never 
had  that  feeling  before,  that  feeling  as  if  nothing 
had  really  existed,  as  if  I  had  never  lived  yet,  as  if 
I  wanted  to  live  once,  just  once,  in  my  life?  .  .  . 
But  no,  it  can  never  be  like  that,  it  can't  happen 
like  that.  No,  that  sort  of  thing  does  not  exist.  It 
is  just  our  imagination  when  we  are  feeling  restless 
and  dissatisfied  ...  or  when  we  are  tired  and  feel 
that  we  have  no  energy  ...  or  whatever  it  is  that 
makes  us  more  easily  affected  by  all  those  strange 
things  which  we  never  suspected  .  .  .  Why  did  I 
not  at  once  laugh  and  say  that,  as  a  child,  as  a  little 
girl,  I  myself  .  .  .  ?  No,  no,  I  simply  couldn't 
say  it;  and  it  is  better  that  I  didn't  say  it  ...  Now 
I  am  getting  frightened  at  my  own  silliness.  It  is 
all  very  well  for  young  people,  for  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
to  have  these  fancies  and  even  talk  of  them,  in  a  ro- 
mantic moment,  but  at  my  age  it  is  simply  ridicu- 
lous ...  It  is  so  long  ago,  so  long  ago;  and,  with 
all  those  years  in  between,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to 
refer  to  poetic  dreams  and  fancies  which  can  only 
be  spoken  of  when  one  is  very  young  ...  I  sha'n't 
speak  of  them  .  .  .  and  I  shall  never  tell  him. 
Wouldn't  it  be  ...  utterly  ridiculous  ?  .  .  .  Yet  it 
does  seem  ...  it  does  seem  to  me  that,  after  those 
years  —  when,  as  Gerrit  said,  I  was  a  dear  little 
child,  playing  in  the  river  at  Buitenzorg,  making  up 
stories  about  fairies  and  poetries,1  decked  with 

1  Malay  fairies. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  99 

flowers,  red  and  white  —  that,  after  those  years,  I 
lost  something  of  myself,  something  romantic  that 
was  in  me  then,  something  living  that  was  in  me  then, 
and  that,  since  then,  I  have  never  lived,  never  lived  a 
single  moment,  as  if  all  sorts  of  vain  and  worldly 
things  had  blinded  me  .  .  .  Oh,  what  thoughts  are 
these  and  why  do  I  have  them?  I  won't  think 
them;  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet,  after  those  wonderful, 
fairy  years,  it  was  all  over  ...  all  over  .  .  . 
What  do  I  remember  of  the  years  after?  Dances, 
balls,  society,  vanity  and  artificiality  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
was  all  over  by  then  .  .  .  And  now  surely  that 
childish  spark  hasn't  revived,  surely  my  soul  isn't 
trying,  isn't  wanting  to  live  again?  No,  no,  it  can't 
do  that:  the  years  are  lying  all  around  it,  the  silent, 
dead  years  of  vanity,  of  blundering,  of  longing,  of 
death  in  life  .  .  .  And  besides,  if  my  soul  did  want 
to  live  again,  it  would  be  too  late  now,  for  every- 
thing; and  it  doesn't  want  to  either  .  .  .  It's  only 
because  of  those  strange  coincidences,  it's  only  be- 
cause he  spoke  like  that  .  .  .  and  because  his  voice 
it  attractive  .  .  .  and  because  I  am  sitting  here 
alone  .  .  .  and  because  the  storm  is  blowing  so  ter- 
ribly, as  though  it  wanted  to  open  the  windows  and 
come  inside  .  .  .  No,  hush,  hush  ...  I  won't  give 
way  to  those  thoughts  again,  never  again  .  .  .  and, 
even  if  that  sort  of  thing  does  really  exist,  it  is  only 
for  those  who  are  young  and  who  see  life  with  the 
glamour  of  youth  .  .  .  and  not  for  me,  not  for  me. 


ioo  THE  LATER  LIFE 

.  .  .  Oh,  I  couldn't  have  told  him  about  myself 
when  I  was  a  child,  for  it  would  have  appeared  to 
me  as  if,  by  telling  him,  I  was  behaving  like  ...  a 
woman  offering  herself!  .  .  .  But  hush,  hush:  all 
this  is  absurd  .  .  .  for  me  ...  now ;  and  I  will  stop 
thinking  of  it  ...  But  how  lonely  I  am,  sitting 
here  .  .  .  and  how  the  wind  howls,  how  Jthe  wind 
howls!  .  .  .  The  lamps  are  nickering;  and  it's  just 
as  if  hands  were  rattling  the  shutters,  trying  hard  to 
open  them  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wish  those  lamps  wouldn't 
flicker  so !  ...  And  I  feel  as  if  the  windows  were 
going  to  burst  open  and  the  curtains  fly  up  in  the 
air  ...  I'm  frightened.  .  .  .  Hark  to  the  trees 
cracking  and  the  branches  falling  .  .  .  Hear  me, 
O  God,  hear  me !  I'm  frightened,  I'm  fright- 
ened ...  Is  this  then  the  first  night  that  I  see 
something  of  myself,  as  if  I  were  suddenly  looking 
back,  on  a  dark  path  that  lies  behind  me,  a  dark 
path  on  which  all  the  pageant  of  vanity  has  grown 
dim?  For  it  does  seem  as  if,  right  at  the  end  of  the 
road,  I  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  sun ;  trees  with  great 
leaves  and  blossoms  red  and  white;  and  a  little  fairy 
child,  in  white,  with  flowers  in  her  hair,  standing  on 
a  boulder,  in  a  river,  beckoning  mysteriously  to  her 
brothers,  who  do  not  understand.  O  my  God,  does 
that  sort  of  thing  really,  really  exist  ...  or  is  it 
only  because  I  never,  never  heard  the  wind  blow 
like  this  before?  .  .  ." 

These  thoughts,  these  doubts,  these  wonderings 


THE  LATER  LIFE  101 

flashed  through  her;  and,  because  she  had  never 
heard  herself  thinking  and  doubting  and  wondering 
so  swiftly,  she  grew  still  more  frightened  in  her 
loneliness,  while  the  storm  howled  more  furiously 
outside.  And  the  silent  lamps  flickered  so  violently 
in  her  drawing-room  —  in  a  sort  of  passionate 
draught  —  that  she  suddenly  rushed  staggering  to  the 
door.  She  went  up  the  stairs ;  and  it  was  as  though 
the  storm  would  break  the  little  villa  to  pieces  with 
one  blow  of  its  angry  wing  .  .  . 

She  went  to  Addie's  room;  her  hand  was  on  the 
door-handle;  she  turned  it.  She  saw  her  boy  work- 
ing at  his  table  and  Van  der  Welcke  smoking  in  the 
easy-chair.  She  gave  a  start,  because  he  was  there, 
and  she  looked  deathly  pale,  with  terrified,  quivering 
eyes. 

"  Mamma !  " 

"My  boy,  I'm  frightened;  listen  to  the 
storm!  .  .  ." 

'Yes,  did  you  ever  see  such  weather?"  asked 
Van  der  Welcke,  through  the  clouds  of  his  cigarette. 

"Are  you  frightened,  Mamma?" 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  my  Addie  .  .  .  I'm  frightened 
.  .  .  I'm  frightened  .  .  ." 

"  And  shall  your  boy  keep  you  safe,  safe  from 
the  wind?" 

'  Yes,  my  darling,  keep  me  safe !  "  she  said,  with 
a  wan  little  laugh.  "  For  I'm  really,  really  fright- 
ened .  .  .  I've  been  sitting  alone  downstairs  .  .  . 


102  THE  LATER  LIFE 

and  it  blew  so,  it  blew  so:  the  lamps  blew  and  the 
shutters  banged  and  I'm  so  frightened  now!  .  .  ." 

The  boy  drew  her  on  his  knees  and  held  her  very 
tight: 

"  Silly  Mummy!     Are  you  really  frightened?  " 
She  made   herself  very   small  in  his   arms,  be- 
tween his  knees,  nestled  up  against  him  and  repeated, 
as  in  a  dream: 

"  Yes,  I'm  so  frightened,  I'm  so  frightened !  .  .  ." 
And,  without  a  further  glance  at  her  husband  sit- 
ting there  clouded  in  the  blue  smoke  of  his  ciga- 
rette, she  as  it  were  crept  into  the  heart  of  her  child, 
whispering,  all  pale  and  wan,  with  a  wan  smile  and 
her  eyes  full  of  anxious  wonder: 

"  I'm    frightened,    Addie !     Save    me !     Protect 
me!  .      ." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  I'M  mad!  "  he  thought,  as,  after  a  hasty  meal  at 
a  restaurant  in  the  town,  he  walked  along  the  Hooge 
Weg  to  Scheveningen  through  the  shrieking  winter 
night. 

The  leafless  branches  lashed  tragically  to  and  fro, 
as  though  sweeping  the  scudding  clouds;  and  the 
street-lamps  seemed  like  ghostly  eyes  blinking  here 
and  there  in  the  fitful  darkness  .  .  . 

"  I'm  mad !  Why  did  I  tell  her  all  that,  I  ...  I 
who  can  never  talk  to  women?  " 

He  was  walking  against  the  wind,  angry  with  him- 
self and  angry  with  the  wind  when  it  barred  his  way 
with  its  widespread  hindering  arms.  The  wind 
whistled  very  high  in  the  air,  along  the  topmost 
leafless  boughs;  and  the  boughs  broke  off,  as  though 
at  the  touch  of  angry  fingers,  and  scattered  all 
around  him;  and  sometimes  a  heavier  branch  fell, 
black,  right  at  his  feet.  He  walked  on  —  his  legs 
were  stronger  than  the  wind  barring  his  way,  tug- 
ging at  his  flapping  coat  —  walked  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  collar  turned  up,  his  hat  pulled  over 
his  eyes;  and  he  walked  on  and  on  without  an  ob- 
ject, only  with  an  eager  craving  for  the  sea,  for  sea 
and  air  and  wind,  to  blow  and  wash  everything  out  of 
his  brain,  which  otherwise  would  be  sick  with  dream- 

103 


104  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ing  .  .  .  Was  he  still  such  a  dreamer,  even  though 
all  the  rest  of  his  life  belied  his  dreams?  What 
did  he  mean  by  suddenly  going  to  that  woman,  apolo- 
gizing to  her  that  afternoon  because  he  didn't  know 
how  to  talk  and  then  suddenly  talking,  talking  like  a 
boy,  telling  her  things  —  shadowy  things  of  the  past 
—  which  he  had  never  told  to  anybody,  because  they 
were  not  things  to  be  told,  because,  once  told,  they 
ceased  to  exist?  .  .  .  What  interest  did  she  take  in 
his  childish  games  and  his  childish  dreams?  .  .  . 
He  had  probably  bored  her :  perhaps  she  had  laughed 
at  him  —  the  cynical  little  laugh  of  the  society- 
woman  —  and  at  his  really  too-ridiculous  simplicity, 
the  simplicity  of  a  man  who  had  thought  and  worked 
and  lived  and  who  had  yet  always  remained  a  child 
...  in  certain  little  corners  of  his  soul  .  .  .  He 
was  so  much  ashamed  at  the  recollection  of  all  that 
he  had  dared  to  say  to  her,  so  much  ashamed  of  the 
irresistible  impulse  which  had  driven  him  to  speak  to 
her,  at  such  length,  of  his  childhood  and  his  childish 
imaginings,  that  he  was  now  —  as  though  to  regain 
mastery  of  himself  after  the  strange  spell  of  her  pres- 
ence —  that  he  was  now  fighting  with  the  wind,  to 
make  himself  feel  strong  again  and  a  man  .  .  .  The 
wind  clung  howling  to  his  body,  dragged  itself  by  his 
legs,  struck  him  blinding  blows  in  the  face,  but  he 
walked  on:  his  strong  legs  walked  on,  with  a  sharp, 
regular  step,  ever  mightier  than  the  wind,  which  he 
trod  under  foot  and  kicked  out  of  his  path  .  .  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  105 

"  I  don't  know  what  It  was,"  he  thought,  "  but, 
once  I  was  alone  with  her,  I  had  ...  I  had  to  say 
it  ...  How  can  I  be  of  any  use  in  the  world,  when 
I  am  such  a  dreamer?  .  .  .  Women!  Have 
women  ever  woven  into  my  life  anything  beyond  the 
most  commonplace  threads?  Have  I  ever  confided 
in  a  woman  before,  or  felt  that  irresistible  impulse 
to  open  my  heart,  as  I  did  this  afternoon,  in  that 
weak  moment  of  enchantment?  Why  to  her,  why 
to  her?  Why  not  to  others,  before  her,  and  why 
first  to  her?  .  .  .  Must  my  life  always  be  this  clumsy 
groping  with  dreams  on  one  side  and  facts  on  the 
other?  But  why,  why  should  I  have  spoken  like 
that:  what  was  the  overpowering  impulse  that 
made  me  tell  her  those  strange  things,  that  made 
it  impossible  for  me  to  do  anything  else?  Are  our 
actions  then  so  independent  of  ourselves  that  we  just 
behave  according  to  the  laws  of  the  most  secret  forces 
in  and  above  us?  ...  Do  /  know  what  it  was  in 
me  that  made  me  speak  like  that,  that  compelled  me 
to  speak  like  that?  It  was  like  an  irresistible 
temptation,  it  was  like  a  path  that  sloped  down  to 
delectable  valleys  and  it  was  as  if  angels  or  demons 
—  I  don't  know  which  —  pushed  and  pushed  me 
and  whispered,  '  Tell  it  all  ...  and  go  down  the 
path  .  .  .  You'll  see  how  beautiful  it  is,  you'll  see 
how  beautiful  it  becomes !  '  She  .  .  .  just  listened, 
without  speaking,  without  moving.  What  did  she 
think?  Nothing,  most  likely.  She  heard  nothing, 


io6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

she  felt  nothing.  If  she's  thinking  of  me  now,  she 
thinks  of  me  as  a  madman,  or  at  least  a  crank  .  .  . 
What  is  she?  She  has  been  a  woman  of  the  world, 
of  just  that  world  which  I  hate  .  .  .  What  has  her 
life  been?  She  married  a  man  much  older  than 
herself,  out  of  vanity.  Then  a  moment  of  passion, 
between  her  and  Hans  .  .  .  What  else  has  there 
been,  what  else  is  there  in  her?  Nothing!  How 
utterly  small  they  all  are,  these  people  who  don't 
think,  who  don't  live :  who  exist  like  dolls,  with  dolls' 
brains  and  dolls'  souls,  in  a  dolls'  world !  What  am 
I  doing  among  them?  Oh,  not  that  I'm  big;  not 
that  I  am  worth  more  than  they,  but,  if  I  am  to  do 
anything  —  for  the  world  —  I  must  live  among  real 
people,  different  people  from  them  ...  or  I  must 
live  alone,  wrapped  in  myself !  .  .  .  That  has  always 
been  the  everlasting  seesaw :  doing,  dreaming,  doing, 
dreaming  .  .  .  But  there  has  never  been  that  temp- 
tation, that  beckoning  towards  delectable  valleys  of 
oblivion  and  that  luxury  of  allowing  myself  to  be 
drawn  along  as  though  by  soul-magnetism,  by  the 
strange  sympathy  of  a  woman's  soul !  ...  Is  it  then 
so,  in  reality !  Is  it  merely  a  mirage  of  love  ?  Love 
has  never  come  into  my  life:  have  I  ever  known 
what  it  was?  Is  there  one  woman  then,  only  one? 
Can  we  find,  even  late,  like  this?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wish 
that  this  wind  would  blow  all  this  uncertainty,  all 
these  vapourings  out  of  my  head  and  my  heart  .  .  . 
and  leave  me  strong  and  simple  .  .  .  to  act  alone, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  107 

to  act  alone  I  ...  And  now  I  will  not  think  about  it 
any  more  .  .  ." 

And  he  quickened  his  pace  and  fought  more  vigor- 
ously against  the  wind,  with  a  wrestler's  vigour,  and, 
when  at  last  he  saw  the  sea,  foaming  pale  under  the 
black  pall  of  cloud  and  roaring  with  a  thousand 
voices,  he  thought: 

"  It  all  came  from  one  moment  of  foolishness. 
It  had  no  real  existence.  I  spoke  as  I  should  not 
have  spoken,  but  what  I  said  was  nothing  and  is 
being  blown  out  of  my  heart  and  out  of  my  head  at 
this  very  moment  .  .  ." 

But,  the  next  day,  waking  from  a  calm  sleep,  he 
asked  himself: 

"  Is  it  not  just  the  unutterable  things  in  us  that 
matter  more  than  anything  else  to  us  ...  and  to 
those  who  made  us  divine  them?  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  DAY  or  two  later,  Marianne  called: 

11  Auntie,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't  seen  you  for  days. 
What's  the  matter?  Are  you  vexed  with  me?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Marianne." 

"  Yes,  there's  something.  You're  cross  with  me. 
Tell  me  that  you're  not  cross  with  me.  I  haven't 
dined  with  you  for  an  age.  You  are  vexed  with  me 
because  I  invited  myself.  Tell  me  that  I'm  mis- 
taken, that  you're  not  vexed  with  me.  And  do  ask 
me  to  dinner  again,  one  day  .  .  .  It's  such  a  busy 
time  just  now:  parties,  dinners,  the  Court  ball  the 
other  night.  It  was  very  boring  .  .  .  We  never 
see  you.  You  never  call  on  us.  Nor  Uncle  either. 
It's  all  through  that  Brauws  man." 

Constance  started,  with  that  strange  nervous  catch 
in  her  throat: 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"  That  old  friend  of  Uncle's,  who  speaks  on 
Peace.  I've  heard  him:  it  was  splendid,  splendid. 
His  speech  was  topping,  I'm  mad  on  Peace.  But 
he  takes  possession  of  Uncle;  the  boys  have  seen 
them  together  twice,  in  a  motor-car.  It's  all  through 
Brauws  that  I  never  see  anything  of  either  of  you 
.  .  .  I  suppose  he's  been  to  dinner,  too?" 

"  Once." 

108 


THE  LATER  LIFE  109 

"  I'm  jealous,  Auntie.  Why  should  he  come 
when  you  don't  ask  me?  Doesn't  Mr.  Van  Vrees- 
wijck  ever  come  now  either?  If  you're  angry  with 
me,  I'll  be  an  angel  in  the  future,  I'll  never  invite 
myself  again.  But  do  invite  me  again,  yourself !  " 

"  But,  you  silly  child,  I'm  not  angry." 

"  Yes,  you  are;  you're  cross  with  me.  You're  not 
the  same.  You're  different  towards  me.  I  feel  it. 
I  see  it." 

"  But,  Marianne  .  .  ." 

"  Aren't  you?  Am  I  wrong?  .  .  .  Tell  me  that 
you're  not  cross  with  me." 

She  knelt  down  by  Constance,  caressingly. 

"Marianne,  what  a  baby  you  arel  ...  I  am 
not  cross:  there!  " 

"  Say  it  once  more,  like  a  darling." 

"I  —  am  —  not  —  cross.  There :  are  you  satis- 
fied?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  now.  And  when  am  I  com- 
ing to  dinner?  " 

"You  little  tyrant!" 

"  I  daren't  ask  myself  again." 

"  What  do  you  like  so  much  in  our  dinners?  " 

"  They're  just  what  I  do  like.  The  other  night, 
when  I  was  so  bored  at  the  Court  ball,  I  thought, 
1  So  long  as  Auntie  asks  me  again  soon,  I  don't  mind 
anything!  ' 

"  Rubbish!     I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!  " 

"  It's  quite  true." 


no  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Well,  will  you  come  one  evening  .  .  .  with 
Brauws  and  Van  Vreeswijck?  Then  I'll  ask  Uncle 
Gerrit  and  Aunt  Adeline  too." 

"  Rather!     That  will  be  lovely.     When?" 

"  I'll  write  and  let  you  know;  don't  be  so  impa- 
tient." 

"  Now  you  are  a  darling!  " 

She  hugged  her  aunt: 

'  You're  looking  so  nice  to-day,  Auntie.  So 
pretty.  You  are  really.  I  say,  how  old  are  you?  " 

"You  silly  child,  what  does  it  matter?" 

"  I  want  to  know.  Wait,  I  can  work  it  out. 
Mamma  said  there  was  eight  years  between  you. 
Mamma  is  fifty.  So  you  must  be  forty-two." 

"  Very  nearly  forty-three.     That's  old,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Old?  I  don't  know.  For  some  women.  Not 
for  you.  You're  young.  And  how  young  Uncle 
looks,  doesn't  he  ?  Why,  Addie  is  more  sedate  than 
Uncle !  .  .  .  You  don't  look  forty-two,  you  look  ten 
years  less  than  that.  Auntie,  isn't  it  strange  how 
the  years  go  by?  I  ...  I  feel  old.  One  year 
comes  after  another;  and  it  all  makes  me  miserable 
.  .  .  Auntie,  tell  me,  what  makes  me  so  fond  of 
you?  .  .  .  Sometimes  .  .  .  sometimes  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  cry  when  I  am  here  .  .  ." 

"  Do  I  make  you  so  sad?  " 

"  No,  not  that.  But,  when  I'm  with  you,  I  don't 
know  why,  I'm  always  thinking  .  .  .  even  when  I'm 
chattering  ...  I  feel  happy  in  your  house,  Auntie. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  in 

Look,  here  are  the  tears!  .  .  .  But  you  .  .  .  you 
have  tears  in  your  eyes  also.  Yes,  you  have,  you 
can't  deny  it.  Tell  me,  Auntie,  what  is  it?  " 

"  Why,  Marianne,  it's  nothing  .  .  .  but  you  talk 
such  nonsense  sometimes  .  .  .  and  that  upsets  me; 
and,  when  I  see  other  people  crying,  it  makes  the 
tears  come  into  my  eyes  too." 

"  Uncle  isn't  always  nice  to  you,  is  he,  Auntie?  " 

"  My  dear  Marianne  1  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  know  he  isn't.  Do  let  me  talk  about  it. 
It's  so  horrid,  when  you're  very  fond  of  some  one, 
always  to  be  silent  about  the  things  you're  thinking 
of.  Let  me  talk  about  it.  I  know  that  Uncle  is 
not  always  nice.  I  told  him  the  other  day  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  You'll  be  angry  when  you  hear.  I  told  him 
the  other  day  that  he  must  be  nicer  to  you.  Are 
you  angry?  " 

"  No,  dear,  but  .  .  ." 

"  No,  you  mustn't  be  angry:  I  meant  to  say  the 
right  thing.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  not  being 
happy  together.  Do  try  and  be  happy  together." 

"  But,  Marianne  dear,  it's  years  now  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  it  must  be  altered.  Auntie,  it  must  be 
altered.  It  would  make  me  so  awfully  happy." 

"  Oh,  Marianne,  Marianne,  how  excitable  you 
are!  .  .  ." 

"  Because  I  feel  for  people  when  I'm  fond  of 
them.  There  are  people  who  never  feel  and  others 


ii2  THE  LATER  LIFE 

who  never  speak  out.  I  feel  .  .  .  and  I  say  what 
I  think.  I'm  like  that.  Mamma's  different:  she 
never  speaks  out.  I  must  speak  out;  I  should  choke 
if  I  didn't.  I  should  like  to  say  everything,  always. 
When  I'm  miserable,  I  want  to  say  so;  when  I  feel 
happy,  I  want  to  say  so.  But  it's  not  always  possi- 
ble, Auntie  .  .  .  Auntie,  do  try  and  be  happy  with 
Uncle.  He  is  so  nice,  he  is  so  kind;  and  you  were 
very  fond  of  him  once.  It's  a  very  long  time 
ago,  I  know;  but  you  must  begin  and  grow  fond  of 
each  other  again.  Tell  me,  can't  you  love  him  any 
more  ?  " 

"  Dear  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  see  it  all:  you  can't!  No,  you  can't  love 
him  any  more.  And  Uncle  is  so  nice,  so  kind  .  .  , 
even  though  he  is  so  quick-tempered  and  excitable. 
He's  so  young  still :  he's  just  like  a  hot-headed  under- 
graduate sometimes,  Henri  said.  In  that  scene  with 
Papa,  he  was  just  like  a  game-cock  .  .  .  You  know, 
in  the  family,  the  uncles  are  afraid  of  Uncle  Henri, 
because  he  always  wants  to  be  fighting  duels.  But 
that's  his  quick  temper;  in  reality,  he's  nice,  he's 
kind.  I  know  it,  Auntie,  because,  when  Uncle  sees 
me  home,  we  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things,  tell  each 
other  everything.  You  don't  mind,  Auntie,  do  you? 
You're  not  jealous?" 

"No,  dear." 

"  No,  you're  not  jealous.  And  Uncle  Henri  is 
my  uncle  too,  isn't  he,  and  there's  no  harm  in  talking 


THE  LATER  LIFE  113 

to  him  ?  He  talks  so  nicely :  time  seems  to  fly  when 
Uncle's  talking  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Auntie,  Brauws:  is 
Brauws  really  a  gentleman?  He  has  been  a  work- 
man." 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  because  he  wanted  to." 

"  I  don't  understand  those  queer  men,  do  you? 
No,  you  don't  either,  you  can't  understand  such  a 
queer  man  any  more  than  I  can.  Just  imagine  .  .  . 
Uncle  Henri  as  a  labouring  man !  Can  you  imagine 
it?  No,  no,  not  possibly!  He  speaks  well, 
Brauws;  and  I  raved  about  Peace  for  a  whole  even- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"And  since?" 

"  No.  I  don't  rave  over  things  long.  Raving 
isn't  the  same  as  feeling.  When  I  really  feel  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  Then  —  I  think  —  it  is  for  always.  For  al- 
ways." 

"  But,  Marianne,  darling,  you  mustn't  be  so  senti- 
mental! .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  about  you?  You're  crying 
again  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Marianne." 

"  Yes,  you're  crying.  Let's  cry  together,  Auntie. 
I  feel  as  if  I  want  to  cry  with  you ;  I'm  in  that  sort  of 
mood,  I  don't  know  why.  There,  see,  I  am  cry- 
ing! ..  ." 

She  knelt  down  by  Constance;  and  her  tears  really 
came. 


n4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Dear,  you  mustn't  excite  yourself  like  that. 
Some  one  is  coming;  I  hear  Uncle  .  .  ." 

The  girl  recovered  herself  quickly  as  Van  der 
Welcke  entered  the  room.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  doorway,  smiling  his  gay,  boyish  smile,  his 
blue  eyes  glowing  with  happiness.  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  second. 

"  Well,  Marianne  ...  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
ever  so  long  ..." 

"  Yes,  you're  always  in  that  old  car  with 
Brauws.  .  .  .  And  I've  been  an  absolute  butterfly. 
Only  think,  at  the  Court  ball,  the  other  night,  just 
as  the  Queen  entered  the  ball-room  .  .  ." 

She  sat  down  and  told  her  little  budget  of  news  in 
a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  far  away.  The 
dusk  crept  in  and  shadowed  the  room,  obliterating 
their  outlines  and  the  expression  of  their  faces. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  ISN'T  she  coming?  "  asked  Adolphine,  with  a  side- 
long glance  at  the  door. 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  at  Mamma  van  Lowe's, 
and  it  was  after  half-past  nine.  It  had  been  like 
that  every  Sunday  evening  since  Constance  returned 
from  Nice:  the  sidelong,  almost  anxious  look 
towards  the  door;  the  almost  anxious  question: 

"  Is  she  coming?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  did  to-night,"  said 
Floortje.  "  If  so,  she's  coming  late,  so  as  not  to 
stay  long." 

Mother  and  daughter  were  sitting  at  the  bridge- 
table  with  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  and  Jaap ;  and  the  cards 
fell  slackly  one  upon  the  other,  uninterestingly,  with 
a  dull  flop;  and  Floortje  gathered  in  the  tricks 
mechanically,  silently  and  greedily. 

"  What  a  frump  Cateau  looks  to-night !  "  said 
Adolphine,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  the  second  card- 
table. 

"  Like  a  washerwoman  in  satin,"  said  Floortje. 

"  I  say,"  said  Uncle  Ruyvenaer,  burning  to  say 
something  spiteful:  he  was  losing,  couldn't  get  a 
hand,  kept  throwing  his  low  cards,  furiously,  one 
after  the  other,  on  Floortje's  fat  trumps.  "  I  say, 
it's  high  time  Bertha  interfered  1  " 

"5 


n6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"What  am  I  talking  about?  What  everybody's 
talking  about:  that  Marianne  is  running  after  Van 
der  Welcke  in  the  most  barefaced  fashion." 

"  Aunt  Bertha  had  better  be  very  careful,  with 
such  a  rotten  cad  as  Uncle  van  der  Welcke,"  Floortje 
opined. 

"  I  passed  them  the  other  evening  on  the  Koningin- 
negracht,"  said  Jaap. 

"  And  what  were  they  doing?  " 

"  How  were  they  walking?  " 

"  They  had  hold  of  each  other." 

"How?" 

"  Well,  he  had  his  arm  around  her  waist." 

"  Did  you  see  it?" 

"Did  I  see  it?  And  he  kept  on  spooning  her  all 
the  time." 

"  And  Bertha,"  said  Adolphine,  "  who  just  acts  as 
if  she  saw  nothing  .  .  .  Good  heavens,  what  a  frump 
Cateau  looks  to-night !  .  .  .  She  doesn't  seem  to  be 
coming,  does  she?  " 

"  No,  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  coming  now." 

"  How  does  Mamma  take  it,  her  staying  away?  " 

"  Mamma  seems  to  get  on  without  her,"  answered 
Uncle  Ruyvenaer. 

"  Mamma  can't  really  be  fond  of  her." 

"  Or  else  Granny  would  insist  on  her  coming,"  said 
Floortje. 

"  It's  much  quieter,  now  that  she's  staying  away." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  117 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  a  bit  of  a  kick-up,"  said  Jaap. 

"  Have  you  had  to-day's  Dwarskijker,  Jaap?  " 

"  Yes,  but  they've  stopped  putting  in  anything 
about  us." 

"  It's  really  a  piece  of  cheek  on  her  part,  not  to 
come  any  more  on  Sundays  .  .  ." 

"  And  to  go  rushing  off  to  Nice  .  .  ." 

"  And  not  even  arrange  to  be  back  on  New  Year's 
Eve." 

"  Yes ;  and  then  we  hear  about  '  longing  for  the 
family.'  " 

"  And  even  on  New  Year's  Eve  .  .  ." 

"  She  takes  good  care  to  keep  away." 

"  Yes,"  said  Adolphine  sentimentally,  "  on  New 
Year's  Eve  we  ought  all  to  be  here." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Uncle  Ruyvenaer.     "  I  agree." 

"  Then,  if  you've  had  a  quarrel  .  .  ." 

"  You  make  it  up  again  .  .  ." 

"  And  start  quarrelling  again,  with  renewed  cour- 
age, on  the  first  of  January,"  grinned  Jaap. 

"  But  —  I've  always  said  so  —  what  Constance 
has  not  got  is  ...  a  heart,"  Adolphine  continued, 
pathetically. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  "  said  Floortje,  sink- 
ing her  voice. 

"What?" 

"  That  she  encourages  Marianne." 

"What  for?" 

"  Well,  deliberately." 


ii8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"But  what  for?" 

"  Why,  to  be  free  of  her  husband." 

"OfVanderWelcke?" 

"  Yes." 

"To  get  .  .  .  rid  of  him?" 

"  Of  course.  He's  young  .  .  .  and  she's  old," 
said  Floortje,  not  sparing  her  mother,  who  was  only 
four  years  younger  than  Constance. 

"  But  do  you  believe  ...  ?  "  said  Uncle,  nodding 
his  head. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  say  that!  " 

"  But  still  .  .  ." 

"  I  expect  it's  only  just  spooning  ...  as  Jaap 
says." 

"  I  don't  think!  "  said  Jaap,  with  a  knowing  grin. 

"  Behave  yourself,  Jaap !  "  said  Adolphine,  angry 
because  Floortje  had  used  the  word  "  old." 

"  Rats !  "  said  Jaap,  rudely,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, as  much  as  to  say  that  Mamma  was  an  idiot. 
"  I'll  eat  my  hat  if  it's  only  spooning." 

They  looked  at  one  another:  Uncle,  Adolphine 
and  Floortje. 

"  You  mustn't  speak  like  that,"  said  Adol- 
phine, in  a  tone  of  reprimand,  "  when  you  don't 
know  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  does  Floortje  know  and  what  do  you 
know?  And  you  are  both  just  as  bad  as  I  am,  with 
your  insinuations.  .  .  .  Only,  I  say  what  you  and 
Floortje  think  ..." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  119 

He  flung  down  his  cards  and  left  his  seat,  because 
he  couldn't  stand  being  treated  like  a  little  boy  who 
didn't  know  things. 

The  three  others  went  on  talking  about  Marianne 
and  Van  der  Welcke  .  .  .  because  they  saw.  But 
they  saw  nothing  of  Brauws  and  Constance  .  .  . 
and  did  not  talk  about  them  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  whined  Cateau.  "  What  a  frump 
Aunt  Adolph-ine  looks  to-night  I  " 

She  was  sitting  at  the  bridge-table  with  Aunt 
Ruyvenaer,  Toetie  and  Eduard  van  Raven  and 
looked  over  her  ample  bust  at  each  card  as  she  played 
it,  very  carefully,  putting  it  down  with  her  fat,  stumpy 
fingers,  the  incarnation  of  unctuous  caution. 

"  To-night?  "  asked  Eduard. 

"  Oh,  so  oft-en :  such  a  frump !  "  declared  Cateau, 
emphatically.  "  So  dowd-y!  " 

"  She's  your  husband's  sister,  after  all,"  said  Aunt 
Ruyvenaer,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  Aunt-ie,  I  know  .  .  .  But  Ka-rel  is  al-ways 
a  gen-tlemanl  " 

"  And  Aunt  Adolphine  never,"  replied  Van  Raven, 
to  provoke  her. 

There  was  no  love  lost  between  aunt  and  nephew; 
and  Cateau  said,  meekly: 

"  Well,  I'm  not  say-ing  it  to  say  any-thing  un-kind 
about  Adolph-ine  .  .  .  But,  Van  Ra-ven,  how  ill 
Emilie-tje's  looking:  so  tired  I  Are  you  two  all 
right  to-gether?  " 


120  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Say,  half  right,"  said  Van  Raven,  echoing  her 
emphasis. 

Toetie  tittered  behind  her  cards;  and  Auntie  said: 

" Ajo,*  Edua-r-r-rd,  you!  .  .  .  Attend  to  the 
game  .  .  .  Your  lead!  " 

Cateau  was  no  match  for  Van  Raven  at  laconic 
repartee  and  so  she  preferred  to  go  on  talking  about 
Constance  and  said: 

"  Is  she  nev-er  com-ing  to  Mo-ther's  Sun-days 
again?  Ah,  I  ex-pect  she's  been  fright-ened  away!  " 

"By  you?"  asked  Eduard,  gleefully  capturing 
Gateau's  knave  of  trumps. 

"  No,  by  the  old  aunts.  It  was  re-ally  ve-ry  tact- 
less ...  of  the  two  old  aunts  .  .  .  Isn't  it  aw-ful : 
about  Mari-anne  and  Van  der  Wel-cke?  " 

Karel,  Van  Saetzema  and  Dijkerhof  were  playing 
three-handed  bridge  at  the  third  table.  They  had 
begun  in  grim  silence,  each  of  them  eager  to  play  the 
dummy,  and  inwardly  Karel  thought  his  sister 
Adolphine  dowdy,  Van  Saetzema  thought  his  sister- 
in-law  Cateau  dowdy,  while  Dijkerhof  thought  both 
his  aunts  very  dowdy,  hardly  presentable.  All 
three,  however,  kept  their  thoughts  locked  up  in  the 
innermost  recesses  of  their  souls,  so  that  outwardly 
they  were  playing  very  seriously,  their  eyes  fixed 
greedily  and  attentively  on  the  dummy's  exposed 
cards.  Suddenly,  however,  Karel  said: 

1  Malay :    "  Come    on,    now   then." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  121 

"  I  say  .  .  ." 

"  Well?  "  asked  Van  Saetzema. 

"  Isn't  it  caddish  of  Van  der  Welcke?  " 

"What?     Compromising  Marianne?  " 

"  Ah,  those  girls  of  Aunt  Bertha's!  "  said  Dijker- 
hof,  with  a  grin. 

;'  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  his  father-in-law. 

''  Well,  Louise  is  in  love  with  her  brother  Otto, 
Emilie  with  her  brother  Henri  and  now  Marianne, 
by  way  of  variety,  goes  falling  in  love  with  her  uncle." 

"  They're  crazy,  all  that  Van  Naghel  lot,"  said 
Karel,  who  felt  particularly  fit  and  well  that  even- 
ing, puffing  luxuriously  after  a  substantial  dinner. 
"I  say,  what  about  Constance?  Isn't  she  coming 
any  more?  " 

"  It  doesn't  look  like  it." 

"  Isn't  Aunt  Constance  coming  any  more?  " 

"  No,  it  doesn't  look  like  it." 

"  Father,  it's  my  turn  to  take  dummy." 

"  Yes,  Saetzema,  it's  Dijkerhof's  turn." 

Father-in-law  and  son-in-law  exchanged  seats. 

The  old  aunts  were  sitting  in  a  corner  near  the 
door  of  the  conservatory: 

"  Rine." 

"  Yes,  Tine." 

"  She  doesn't  seem  to  be  coming  any  more  on  Sun- 
days." 

"  No,  Tine,  she  doesn't  come  on  Sundays  now." 


122  THE  LATER  LIFE 

11  A  good  thing  too !  "  Tine  yelled  into  Rine's  ear. 

Mamma  van  Lowe,  smiling  sadly,  moved  from 
table  to  table,  with  Dorine,  asking  the  children  if 
they  wouldn't  like  something  to  drink. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

v 

"  YOU'RE  absolutely  humanizing  Brauws,"  said  Van 
der  Welcke  to  Constance,  when  Brauws  had  accepted 
a  second  invitation  to  dinner.  "  And  with  other 
people  coming,  too !  .  .  .  It's  incredible !  " 

She  was  fond  of  seeing  people  whom  she  liked  at 
her  table;  and  she  took  a  pleasure  in  making  her 
house  comfortable  for  others  as  well  as  for  herself. 
Addle  was  to  come  down  to  dinner.  Adeline  was 
going  out  for  the  first  time  after  her  recent  confine- 
ment; and  Gerrit  was  glad  to  come,  appreciated  a 
good  dinner.  Her  only  fear  had  been  that  Van 
Vreeswijck  would  think  it  too  much  of  a  family  din- 
ner this  time. 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  would  you  rather  not  come?  " 
she  asked  Van  Vreeswijck. 

But  he  almost  flushed  as  he  said: 

"  But  I'm  delighted  to  come,  mevrouw." 

She  had  noticed  lately  that  he  was  paying  great 
attention  to  Marianne;  and  she  was  almost  glad  of  it. 

They  were  very  gay  at  dinner;  and  Brauws,  feel- 
ing quite  at  home,  talked  about  America :  how  he  had 
stood  on  the  platform  of  an  electric  tram,  in  wind 
and  rain,  as  driver. 

"  Constance,"  said  Paul,  "  all  the  social  elements 
123 


124  THE  LATER  LIFE 

are  assembled  at  your  dinner-table  tonight!  Did 
you  choose  them  on  purpose?  Van  Vreeswijck 
represents  the  Court  aristocracy;  your  husband,  let  us 
say,  the  country  aristocracy :  it's  the  only  word  I  can 
find  for  him;  Gerrit  the  army;  Brauws  labour;  I  the 
middle-classes,  the  pure  unadulterated  capitalists ;  and 
your  boy  the  future,  the  mysterious  future!  The 
ladies  are  not  so  mixed :  next  time,  you  must  mix  your 
ladies  .  .  ." 

"  Mr.  Brauws,"  Marianne  asked,  suddenly,  "  why 
aren't  you  driving  a  tram  now?  " 

"  Freule,1  to  explain  that,  I  should  have  to  talk  to 
you  for  two  hours  about  myself;  and  you  wouldn't  be 
interested  in  the  explanation  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  said  Marianne,  flippantly.  "  If  you 
had  remained  a  tram-driver,  your  life  would  not  have 
interested  me.  Now  that  you  have  resigned  your 
rank  as  a  workman  and  are  eating  pate  and  drinking 
champagne  with  us,  it  does  interest  me.  For  it's 
just  that  evolution  which  attracts  me  .  .  ." 

"  Marianne ! "  said  Paul,  admonishing  her. 
"  Not  so  fast,  child :  you're  only  a  little  girl  and  you 
mustn't  discuss  such  questions.  You'll  be  making 
Mr.  Brauws  afraid  to  take  another  mouthful !  .  .  ." 

Brauws  was  obviously  a  little  annoyed;  and  Con- 
stance whispered: 

"  Marianne  .  .  .  don't  talk  like  that  .  .  ." 

"  But,  Auntie  .  .  ." 

1The  title  borne  by  the  unmarried  daughters  of  Dutch  noblemen. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  125 

"  No,  dear,  don't  do  it:  don't  talk  like  that  .  .  ." 

"  Am  I  always  saying  tactless  things?  " 

"  No,  no,  but  ...  if  you  keep  on,  you'll  really 
make  Brauws  refuse  to  come  to  the  houses  of  people 
like  ourselves  .  .  ." 

"  Who  eat  pate!  " 

11  Hush,  Marianne !  " 

"  Uncle !  "  said  Marianne  to  Van  der  Welcke. 

"Yes?" 

"  Don't  you  think  it  silly?  To  become  a  work- 
man and  then  leave  off?  Why?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  If  you  want  to  become  one,  you 
should  remain  one !  Are  you  in  sympathy  with  those 
ideas  which  lead  to  nothing?  " 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  Brauws,  Marianne." 

"But  not  of  his  ideas?" 

"  No,  he's  a  monomaniac.  He's  mad  on  that 
point,  or  was." 

"  Just  so:  was." 

"Marianne,  are  you  always  so  implacable?" 

The  bells: 

"  No,  I'm  not  implacable.  Paul  is  really  right : 
I  mustn't  talk  like  that.  I  blurt  out  the  first  thing 
that  comes  into  my  head.  Is  Brauws  angry,  do  you 
think?" 

"With  you?     No." 

"  I  say,  Uncle,  do  you  think  it's  the  least  use,  al- 
ways thinking  about  that  improvement  of  social  con- 
ditions ?  Why  not,  all  of  us,  do  good  where  we  can 


126  THE  LATER  LIFE 

and,  for  the  rest,  try  and  be  happy  ourselves? 
That's  the  great  thing." 

Van  der  Welcke  laughed: 

"  What  an  easy  solution,  Marianne !  " 

"  Tell  me,  Uncle:  do  you  do  a  lot  of  good?  " 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  happy?  " 

"  Sometimes  .  .  ." 

"  Not  always  ...  I  don't  do  any  good  either,  or 
not  much.  I  am  happy  .  .  .  sometimes.  You  see, 
I  don't  go  very  far,  even  according  to  my  own  super- 
ficial creed.  Uncle,  are  we  very  insignificant,  should 
you  say?  " 

"Who,  baby?" 

"  You  and  I !  Much  more  insignificant  than 
Brauws?" 

11 1  think  so." 

"Are  we  small?" 

"Small?" 

"  Yes,  are  we  small  souls  .  .  .  and  is  he  ...  is 
he  a  big  one?  " 

"  Perhaps,  Marianne." 

*  Yes,  I'm  a  small  one.  And  you  too  ...  I 
think.  He's  not.  No,  he's  one  of  the  big  ones  .  .  . 
though  he  is  eating  pate  just  now.  But  I,  a  small 
soul,  shall  always  like  small  souls  best.  I  like  you 
much  better  than  him." 

"  And  yet  he  is  more  interesting  than  I ;  and  one 
doesn't  come  across  many  big  souls." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  127 

"  No,  but  I  like  you  best.  I  daren't  talk  to  him 
again.  I  should  start  quarrelling  with  him  at  once. 
Straight  away.  I  could  never  quarrel  with  you. 
That's  the  sympathy  between  small  soul  .  .  .  and 
small  soul.  Tell  me,  is  your  insignificance  attracted 
to  mine  also  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  Marianne." 

"  You  say  perhaps  to  everything.     Say  yes." 

"  Well,  then,  yes." 

"  Are  we  both  small?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Both  of  us?" 

"  Yes." 

"  In  sympathy?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  bells : 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  yes!  "  she  laughed;  and  the  little 
bells  tinkled  merrily,  the  shrill  little  silver  bells. 
"  Uncle,  I  drink  to  it." 

"To  what?" 

"  To  our  small  .  .  .  sympathy." 

"Here  goes!" 

Their  champagne-glasses  touched,  with  a  crystal 
note.  They  drank. 

"What  are  you  drinking  to?  "  asked  Paul. 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  tiny  mouth.  She  was 
radiant  and,  in  her  excitement,  she  became  very 
pretty,  with  her  shining  eyes.  She  felt  that  Brauws 
was  looking  at  her ;  and  she  felt  that  Brauws  was  still 


128  THE  LATER  LIFE 

angry.  And,  feeling  mischievous  and  happy,  with  a 
desire  to  tease  them  all,  Brauws,  Paul  and  Van  der 
Welcke,  she  murmured,  with  an  airy  grace : 

"  That's  our  secret;  Uncle's  and  mine  .  .  ." 

"  A  secret?  "  asked  Van  Vreeswijck. 

She  laughed.     The  bells  rang  out  merrily : 

"  And  you,"  she  said  to  Van  Vreeswijck,  ma- 
liciously, "  you  sha'n't  know  the  secret  ever  I  ..." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  men  remained  behind  to  smoke;  Constance  went 
to  the  drawing-room  with  Adeline  and  Marianne. 

"  You're  looking  so  happy  to-night,  Aunt  Con- 
stance," said  Marianne.  "  Don't  you  think  so,  Aunt 
Adeline?  Tell  me  why." 

The  girl  herself  looked  happy,  radiant  as  though 
with  visible  rays,  a  great  light  flashing  from  her 
sparkling  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Auntie's  looking  very  well,"  said  the  simple 
little  fair-haired  woman. 

"  That's  because  I  think  it  so  nice  to  have  all  of 
you  with  me." 

Marianne  knelt  down  beside  her,  in  her  caressing 
way: 

"  She  is  so  nice,  isn't  she,  Aunt  Adeline?  I  say, 
Aunt  Adeline,  isn't  she  a  darling?  So  nice,  so  jolly, 
so  homy.  I  adore  Aunt  Constance  these  days." 

And  she  embraced  Constance  impetuously. 

"  Yes,  Constance,"  said  Adeline,  "  I'm  very  fond 
of  you  too." 

And  she  took  her  sister-in-law's  hand.  She  was  a 
very  gentle,  simple,  fair-haired  little  woman,  the 
quiet,  obedient  little  wife  of  her  big,  noisy  Gerrit; 
and  the  family  thought  her  insignificant  and  boring. 

Because  Constance  had  at  once  sought  her  affection 

129 


130  THE  LATER  LIFE 

and  valued  her  affection,  she  had,  after  her  first  sur- 
prise, grown  very  fond  of  Constance.  She  never 
went  out  in  the  evening,  because  of  the  children,  ex- 
cept when  Constance  invited  her.  And  she  sat  there, 
happy  to  be  with  Constance,  with  her  gentle  smile  on 
her  round,  fair,  motherly  little  face,  pleasant  and 
comfortable  with  her  matronly  little  figure,  now  too 
plump  for  prettiness. 

The  men  joined  them;  and,  when  Constance  saw 
Brauws  come  in  with  the  others,  she  thought  that  he 
looked  strange,  pale  under  the  rough  bronze  of  his 
cheeks.  His  deep,  grey  eyes  seemed  to  lose  them- 
selves in  their  own  sombre  depths;  and  for  the  first 
time  she  examined  his  features  in  detail:  they  were 
somewhat  irregular  in  outline,  with  the  short-cropped 
hair;  his  nose  was  large  and  straight  and  the  heavy 
eyebrows  arched  sombrely  over  the  sombre  eyes ;  his 
temples  were  broad  and  level;  his  cheekbones 
wide;  and  all  that  part  of  his  face  was  energetic,  in- 
telligent, rough  and  sombre,  a  little  Gothic  and  bar- 
barian, but  yet  curiously  ascetic,  with  the  asceticism 
of  the  thinker.  But  the  mouth  might  have  belonged 
to  quite  another  face:  almost  weak,  more  finely  and 
purely  drawn  than  any  of  his  other  features;  the  lips 
fresh,  without  any  heavy  sensuality;  the  white  teeth 
seemed  to  hold  a  laughing  threat  as  though  they 
would  bite:  a  threat  that  gave  him  the  look  of  a 
beast  of  prey.  And  yet  that  mouth,  the  moustache 
and  the  chin  had  something  more  delicate  about  them, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  131 

as  though  they  belonged  to  another  face;  his  voice 
was  gentle ;  and  his  laugh,  which  every  now  and  then 
burst  out  naturally  and  clearly,  was  charming,  had  a 
note  of  kindliness,  which  softened  all  that  was  rough 
and  threatening  into  something  surprisingly  lovable. 
In  his  vigorous,  broad,  powerful  movements  he  had 
retained  an  almost  unceremonious  freedom,  which 
most  certainly  remained  to  him  from  his  workman 
years :  an  indifference  to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  to 
the  mantelpiece  against  which  he  leant;  an  indifference 
which  seemed  a  strong  and  virile,  easy  and  natural 
grace  in  the  man  of  culture  whose  hands  had  la- 
boured: something  original  and  almost  impulsive, 
which,  when  it  did  not  charm,  was  bound  to  appear 
antipathetic,  rude  and  rough  to  any  one  who  was  ex- 
pecting the  manners  prescribed  by  social  convention 
for  a  gentleman  in  a  drawing-room.  Constance  was 
sometimes  surprised  that  she,  of  all  women,  was  not 
offended  by  this  unceremonious  freedom,  that  she  was 
even  attracted  by  it;  but  a  nervous  girl  like  Marianne 
—  herself  a  delicate,  fragile  little  doll  of  boudoir 
culture  —  would  tingle  to  her  finger-tips  with  irri- 
tation at  that  impulsive  naturalness,  which  was  too 
spacious  for  her  among  the  furniture  of  Aunt  Con- 
stance' drawing-room.  And  a  sort  of  uncontrol- 
lable resentment  surged  through  her  when  Brauws 
came  to  where  she  sat  and  said: 

"  Do  you  always  .  .  .  take  such  an  interest  in 
evolution,  freule?" 


132  THE  LATER  LIFE 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  He  was  bending 
forward  a  little,  in  a  protecting  and  almost  mocking 
attitude;  and  she  saw  only  the  barbaric,  Teutonic 
part  of  his  head  and  the  beast-of-prey  threat  of  his 
handsome  teeth.  She  hated  it  all,  because  it  was 
very  strong  and  as  it  were  hostile  to  her  caste.  She 
answered,  with  cool  irony : 

"  No,  Mr.  Brauws,  only  in  your  case." 

"And  to  what  do  I  owe  the  honour?"  asked 
Brauws. 

"  It's  only  natural.  You  were  not  like  every- 
body .  .  .  once.  Now  that  I  am  meeting  you  just 
as  I  meet  everybody,  it  interests  me  to  know  how  it 
came  about." 

"  From  weakness,  you  think?  Is  that  your  secret 
idea?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  And,  if  it  were  so, 
would  you  despise  me?  " 

The  conversation  was  getting  on  her  nerves.  She 
tried  to  evade  it: 

"  You  may  be  weak,  you  may  be  strong,"  she  said, 
irritably.  "  I  don't  know  .  .  .  and  ...  it  doesn't 
interest  me  so  very  much." 

"  It  did  just  now." 

Again  she  looked  up  quickly,  with  the  quick, 
nervous  grace  of  all  her  movements,  and  it  flashed 
upon  her  that  he  was  very  angry  with  her,  very  hos- 
tile towards  her. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  133 

"  Aunt  Constance !  "  she  called.  "  Do  come  and 
help  me.  Mr.  Brauws  isn't  at  all  nice." 

Constance  came  up. 

"  He's  not  nice,  your  friend,"  Marianne  went 
on,  like  a  spoilt  child,  a  little  frightened.  "  He 
wants  ...  he  absolutely  insists  on  quarrelling  with 
me.  Do  take  my  part !  " 

And  she  suddenly  flitted  away  to  another  chair 
and,  bending  behind  her  fan  to  Van  der  Welcke : 

"  That  Brauws  man  is  a  most  disagreeable  per- 
son. Why  can't  he  let  me  alone?  " 

She  felt  safe  with  him,  this  man  of  her  own  class, 
who  joined  hands  with  her  own  selfish,  happiness- 
craving  youth  —  for  he  was  young  —  a  small  soul, 
like  hers.  Her  small  soul  hung  on  his  eyes ;  and  she 
felt  that  she  loved  him.  As  long  as  she  did  not  think 
about  it  and  abandoned  herself  to  her  overflowing 
happiness,  she  remained  happy,  full  of  radiance;  it 
was  only  at  home  that  it  cost  her  tears  and  bitter 
agony. 

"  You're  surely  not  angry  with  my  little  niece?  " 
asked  Constance. 

He  was  still  pale,  under  the  rough  bronze  of  his 
cheeks. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  sombrely. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  almost  beseechingly.  "She 
is  a  child!" 

"  No,  she  is  not  merely  a  child.  She  represents 
to  me  .  ." 


i34  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"What?  .  .  ." 

"  All  of  you !  "  he  said,  roughly,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Her  caste,  to  which  you  yourself  belong. 
What  am  I  here  for?  Tell  me  what  I  am  here  for. 
A  single  word  from  that  delicate,  lily-white  child, 
who  hates  me,  has  made  me  ask  myself,  what  am  I 
here  for,  among  all  of  you?  I'm  out  of  place  here." 

"  No.     You  are  our  friend,  Henri's  friend." 

"And  yours?" 

"  And  mine." 

"Already?" 

"  Already.  So  don't  think  that  you  are  out  of 
place  here." 

'  You  also  are  a  woman  ...  of  your  caste,"  he 
said,  gloomily. 

"  Can  I  help  that?  "  she  asked,  half  laughing. 

"  No.  But  why  friendship  ?  Our  ideas  remain 
poles  apart." 

"  Ideas?     I  have  none.     I  have  never  thought." 

"Never  thought?" 

"  No." 

"  You  are  a  woman :  you  have  only  felt." 

"  Not  that  either." 

"  Not  felt?     But  then  what  have  you  done?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have  lived." 

"Not  ever?" 

"  No,  not  ever." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  135 

"  How  do  you  know  that  now?  " 

"  I  am  beginning  to  feel  it  now,  by  degrees.  No 
doubt  because  I  am  getting  old  now." 

"  You  are  not  old." 

"  I  am  old." 

"  And  thinking:  are  you  also  beginning  to  think?  " 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  But,  by  the  way  you  speak  of  yourself,  you  are 
quite  young!  " 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  that  child!  "  she  entreated, 
turning  the  conversation.  "  She  is  a  nice  girl,  I  am 
very  fond  of  her  .  .  .  but  she  sometimes  says 
things  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  don't.  I  could  almost  say,  I  hate  her  as  she 
hates  me." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  in  a  frightened  voice. 
"  You  don't  know  her.  You  can't  hate  her." 

"  I  am  different  from  other  people,  am  I  not, 
mevrouw?  I  say  different  things  and  I  say  them 
differently.  You  know  it,  you  knew  it  before  I  en- 
tered your  house !  "  he  said,  almost  fiercely. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"That  child  .  .  .  that  delicate,  that  lily-white 
child  ...  is  ..." 

"What?" 


136  THE  LATER  LIFE 

'  The  danger  to  your  domestic  happiness." 

She  gave  a  violent  start : 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  She's  in  love  with  Hans." 

"  Hush!  "  she  whispered,  trembling,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  hand.  "  Hush !  " 

"  She  is  in  love  with  Hans." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  see  it  ...  It  radiates  from  their  whole  be- 
ing  ..."  • 

They  both  of  them  looked  at  Van  der  Welcke  and 
Marianne.  The  two  were  whispering  together  with 
a  glance  and  a  smile,  half-hidden  behind  a  fan,  while 
Paul,  Gerrit  and  Van  Vreeswijck  were  in  the  midst 
of  an  eager  discussion  and  Addie  gallantly  entertain- 
ing Aunt  Adeline,  who  was  smiling  gently. 

"  Please  hush!  "  Constance  entreated  again,  very 
pale.  "  I  know  she's  in  love  with  him." 

"You  know  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"Has  she  told  you?" 

"  No.  But  I  see  it  radiating  out  of  her,  as  you  see 
it.  But  she  is  no  danger  ...  to  my  domestic  hap- 
piness. That  happiness  lies  in  my  son,  not  in  my 
husband." 

"  I  like  Hans,"  he  said,  almost  reproachfully.  "  I 
have  always  liked  him,  perhaps  just  because  he  was 
always  a  child  —  and  I  already  a  man  —  when  we 
were  boys.  He  is  still  a  child.  He  also  .  .  .  loves 


THE  LATER  LIFE  137 

her.  You  see,  I  say  different  things  from  other  peo- 
ple, because  I  don't  know  how  to  talk  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,"  she  whispered,  "  that  he  loves  her." 

"You  know?" 

"  Yes." 

"Has  he  told  you?" 

"  No.  But  I  see  it  radiating  out  of  him  as  I  do 
out  of  her." 

"  So  do  I." 

"Hush,  please  hush!" 

"What's  the  use  of  hushing?  Everybody  sees 
it." 

"  No,  not  everybody." 

"  If  we  see  it,  everybody  sees  it." 

"  No." 

"  I  say  yes.     I  know  that  your  brothers  see  it." 

"  No  .  .  .  Please,  please  .  .  .  don't  speak  of  it, 
don't  speak  of  it,  don't  speak  of  it!  " 

"She  is  happy!" 

"  She  must  be  suffering  as  well." 

"  But  she  gives  herself  up  to  her  happiness.  She 
is  young,  she  does  not  reflect  .  .  .  any  more  than 
Hans  does.  I  am  sorry  .  .  .  for  your  sake, 
mevrouw." 

"  It  is  no  sorrow  to  me  for  my  own  sake  ...  I 
am  sorry  ...  for  hers.  Don't  be  angry  with  the 
child!  Who  knows  what  she  suffers!  Don't  be 
angry  because  she  .  .  .  annoyed  you  at  dinner,  with 
her  questions." 


i38  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  One  can't  control  one's  likes  ...  or  one's  dis- 
likes." 

"  No.  But  I  do  like  the  girl  .  .  .  and  I  want 
you  to  try,  as  our  friend,  not  to  hate  her  .  .  .  How 
seriously  we're  talking!  I  can't  talk  like  that:  I'm 
not  used  to  it.  I  confess  to  you  honestly,  I'm  getting 
frightened  ..." 

"Of  me?  .  .  ." 

"  You're  too  big  ...  to  hate  a  child  like  that." 

"  I'm  not  big  at  all  ...  I  am  very  human.  I 
sometimes  feel  very  small.  But  you  are  right:  to 
hate  that  child,  for  a  single  word  which  she  said,  for 
a  touch  of  hostility  which  I  felt  in  her,  is  very  small. 
Thanks  for  the  rebuke.  I  won't  hate  her,  I  promise 
you." 

At  first,  the  sombre  austerity  of  his  frown  and  his 
expression  had  almost  terrified  her.  She  now  saw 
his  lips  laugh  and  his  face  light  up. 

"  I'm  going  to  apologize." 

"  No,  don't  do  that." 

11  Yes,  I  will." 

He  went  to  Marianne;  and  Constance  heard  him 
say: 

"  Freule,  I  want  to  make  friends." 

She  did  not  catch  what  Marianne  answered,  but 
she  heard  the  little  bells  of  Marianne's  laughter  and 
saw  her  put  out  her  hand  to  Brauws.  It  was  a 
reconciliation ;  and  yet  she  felt  that  the  hostility  con- 
tinued to  exist,  irreconcilably,  like  a  hostility  that  was 


THE  LATER  LIFE  139 

too  deep-seated,  going  down  to  the  fundamental  an- 
tagonism of  caste,  even  though  this  was  innate  in  her 
and  cultivated  in  him  .  .  . 

"  And  why,"  she  thought,  "  do  not  /  feel  that  hos- 
tility? .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THERE  was  a  big  official  dinner  at  Van  Naghel's; 
and  the  guests  were  expected  in  three-quarters  of 
an  hour. 

"  Mamma,"  whined  Huigje  to  Frances,  as  she  was 
dressing,  "  what's  happening?  " 

"  There  are  people  coming,"  said  Frances,  without 
looking  up. 

"  What  sort  of  people,  Mamma?  " 

"  Oh,  there's  a  dinner-party,  dear !  "  said  Frances, 
irritably. 

Huigje  did  not  know  what  a  dinner-party  was: 

"  What's  dinner-party?  "  he  asked  his  little  sister 
Ottelientje. 

"  Things  to  eat,"  said  Ottelientje,  importantly. 

"Things  to  eat?" 

"  Yes,  nice  things  .  .  .  ices." 

"  Shall  we  have  dinner-party,  Mamma,  and  ices?  " 
whined  Huigje. 

"  Allah,1  baboe,2  keep  the  sinjo  3  with  you !  .  .  . 
But,  baboe,  do  me  up  first." 

Otto,  who  now  had  a  billet  at  the  Foreign  Office, 
came  in,  followed  by  Louise. 

"  Oh,  aren't  you  dressing,  Louise?  "  said  Frances. 

u  No,  I'm  not  going  down,"  she  answered.     "  I 

1  Lord  I    Heavens  I  2  Nurse,    ayah.  z  The  young  master. 

140 


THE  LATER  LIFE  141 

shall  have  my  meal  with  the  children  and  with 
Marietje  and  Karel,  in  the  nursery." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  have  your  dinner  with  the 
children,"  said  Frances,  fastening  her  bracelet. 

"  No,"  said  Louise,  gently,  "  but  I'm  having  din- 
ner with  Karel  and  Marie  in  any  case." 

"  One  would  think  you  were  mad,"  said  Frances. 
"  Why  aren't  you  at  the  dinner?  " 

"  I  arranged  it  with  Mamma.  There's  a  place 
short." 

"  But  you're  not  a  child !  " 

"  Frances,  what  do  I  care  about  these  dinners?  " 
said  Louise,  with  a  gentle  little  laugh. 

"  If  there's  a  place  short,"  said  Frances,  working 
herself  up  about  nothing,  "  /'//  have  my  dinner  with 
the  children." 

"  Frances,  please  .  .  ." 

"I  will!" 

"  But,  Frances,  why  make  difficulties  when  there 
are  none?"  Louise  replied,  very  gently.  "  Really, 
it  has  all  been  arranged  .  .  .  with  Mamma." 

"  I'm  only  a  step-daughter !  "  cried  Frances. 

"  You  mean,  a  daughter-in-law  I  "  Otto  put  in,  with 
a  laugh. 

"  A  step-daughter!"  Frances  repeated,  trembling 
with  nervous  irritation.  "  You're  a  daughter. 
Your  place  is  at  the  dinner." 

"  Frances,  I  assure  you,  I'm  not  going  in  to  din- 
ner," said  Louise,  quietly  but  decidedly. 


142  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Frances !  "  said  Otto. 

But  Frances  wanted  to  get  angry,  about  nothing, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  working  herself  up.  She 
scolded  the  baboe,  pushed  the  children  out  of  her 
way,  broke  a  fan: 

"  There,  I've  smashed  the  rotten  thing !  " 

"  Is  that  your  new  fan?  "  asked  Otto,  furiously. 

"  Yes.     R-r-rootsh!  .  .  .  There,  it's  in  shreds  1  " 

He  flew  into  a  rage : 

"  You  needn't  think  I'll  ever  give  you  anything 
again  1  ...  You're  not  worth  it  I  " 

"  That's  right,  then  you  can  give  everything  to 
your  sister:  you're  fonder  of  Louise  as  it  is  .  .  . 
you're  in  love  with  Louise.  R-r-rootsh!  .  .  . 
R-r-rootsh!" 

And  she  sent  the  fan  flying  across  the  room,  in 
pieces. 

"  Eh,  njonja!  "  1  said  the  baboe  in  mild  astonish- 
ment. 

"  You're  a  regular  nonna,2  that's  what  you  are!  " 
said  Otto,  flushing  angrily. 

But  his  wife  laughed.  The  broken  fan  had  re- 
lieved her,  made  her  feel  livelier : 

"  Give  me  that  other  fan,  baboe." 

She  was  ready.  She  looked  at  her  face  in  the 
glass,  added  a  touch  of  powder  and  smiled.  She 
thought  that  she  looked  nice,  though  she  was  a  little 

1  Mem-sahib.  2  Half-caste. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  143 

pale  and  thin.  Suddenly,  she  sat  down,  straight  up 
in  a  chair: 

"  I  feel  so  faint!  "  she  murmured. 

Louise  went  to  her: 

"What's  the  matter,  Frances?" 

"  I  feel  so  faint!  "  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

She  was  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"  Give  me  some  eau-de-Cologne  .  .  ." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  now?  "  cried  Otto, 
in  despair. 

"  Baboe"  said  Louise,  "get  some  vinegar;  me- 
vrouw's  fainting." 

"  No,"  moaned  Frances,  "  vinegar  .  .  .  stains 
.  .  .  one's  .  .  .  things  .  .  .  Mind  .  .  .  my  .  .  . 
dress.  Eau  ...  de  ...  Cologne." 

Louise  dabbed  her  forehead. 

"  Don't  ruffle  my  hair  I "  screamed  Frances. 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  "  she  moaned,  the  next  second. 

She  rested  her  head  against  Louise: 

"Louise!" 

"What  is  it,  Frances?" 

"  I  haven't  been  nice  to  you  .  .  .  I'm  going  to 
die." 

"  No,  no,  you're  not." 

"Yes,  I  am  ...  Huigje!  Ottelientje!  Mam- 
ma's going  to  die." 

Otto  took  the  children  out  of  the  room. 

"Leave  them  with  me!"  she  moaned.  "I'm 
dying!  .  .  ." 


144  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  No,  Frances.  But  won't  you  lie  down  a  little? 
Take  off  your  things?  Lie  down  on  your  bed?  " 

"  No  ...  no  ...  I'm  a  little  better  ...  I 
must  go  down  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  feeling  better?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  Give  me  some  .  .  .  eau-de-Cologne  .  .  . 
Oh,  Louise,  everything  suddenly  went  black!  .  .  ." 

"  You  felt  giddy,  I  expect.  Did  you  take  your 
drops  to-day?  " 

"  Yes,  but  they're  no  good,  those  drops.  I'm 
much  better  now,  Louise.  Are  you  angry  with 
me?  .  .  ." 

"  No." 

"  For  saying  Otto  was  in  love  with  you?  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Frances !  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  in  love  with  you.  You're  mad,  you 
two:  brother  and  sister;  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  .  .  .  I'm  better,  Louise.  Will  you  help  me 
downstairs?  And  will  you  .  .  .  will  you  have  your 
dinner  with  the  children?  That's  sweet  of  you  .  .  . 
You  see,  the  foreign  secretary's  coming  and  that's 
why  Papa  wants  Otto  and  me  to  be  at  the  dinner. 
Otherwise  I  don't  care  about  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  . 
I'm  much  better  now,  Louise  .  .  .  Come,  take  me 
downstairs." 

She  stood  up  and  Louise  helped  her  down  the^ 
stairs,  tenderly. 

The  maids  were  running  upstairs,  downstairs  and; 
along  the  passages;   footmen  were  waiting  in  the 


THE  LATER  LIFE  145 

hall;  the  house  was  one  blaze  of  light.  In  the 
drawing-room,  Bertha,  already  dressed,  was  speak- 
ing to  Willem,  the  butler;  the  doors  were  open,  show- 
ing the  long  table  glittering  through  its  flowers. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Frances?"  asked  Ber- 
tha, seeing  Frances  come  in  slowly,  looking  very 
pale,  leaning  on  Louise's  arm. 

"  I'm  better  now,  Mamma  ...  I  thought  I  was 
dying  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment,  there  was  a  loud  peal  at  the 
front-door  bell. 

"Who  can  that  be?" 

One  of  the  footmen  opened  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Bertha,  softly,  from  the 
stairs. 

"It's  I,  Mamma!" 

"Emilie!" 

"Yes  ...  I  ..  ." 

Emilie  came  up.  She  had  flung  down  a  wet 
waterproof  in  the  hall  and  was  very  pale;  her  hair 
hung  in  disorder  over  her  face. 

"  But,  Emilie  .  .  .  what's  the  matter?" 

She  had  flown  upstairs  precipitately,  seeing  no- 
thing; now  she  suddenly  perceived  the  rooms,  all  open 
and  lit  up,  with  the  long  table  and  the  flowers;  and 
she  remembered  that  there  was  a  dinner-party  .  .  . 

"I've  run  away!"  she  said.  "I'm  not  going 
back!" 

"Run  away!" 


i46  THE  LATER  LIFE 

11  Yes.  Eduard  struck  me  ...  and  insulted  me 
.  .  .  insulted  me  ...  I  won't  go  back  home  .  .  . 
I  shall  stay  here !  " 

"  Emilie !     Good  heavens  I  " 

"  Unless  you  turn  me  away  .  .  .  Then  I'll  go  into 
the  streets,  I  don't  know  where  ...  to  Leiden  .  .  . 
to  Henri  .  .  .  I'll  go  to  Henri.  Understand  what 
I  say,  Mamma:  I'll  never  go  back  to  Eduard." 

Van  Naghel  appeared  at  the  door: 

"What's  happened,  Emilie?" 

"  Papa,  Papa,  I've  run  away  .  .  ." 

"  Run  away  .  .  ." 

"  From  Eduard.  It's  a  dog's  life.  He's  a  miser. 
He's  always  bullying  me,  reproaching  me,  saying 
that  I  spend  too  much  money  .  .  .  that  my  parents, 
yes,  that  you  .  .  .  that  you  spend  too  much  money  I 
He's  mad  with  meanness.  He  locks  up  my  linen- 
cupboard  .  .  .  because  I  wear  too  many  chemises 
and  send  too  many  things  to  the  wash  and  employ 
too  expensive  a  laundress!  He  grudges  me  more 
than  one  chemise  a  week!  He's  mad  .  .  .  he's 
gone  mad !  For  a  whole  week,  I  put  on  three  fresh 
chemises  a  day,  to  annoy  him,  and  I  threw  all  those 
chemises  into  his  dirty-clothes-basket,  to  annoy  him! 
He  found  them  this  morning!  I  told  him  that  I 
was  the  mistress  of  my  own  chemises  and  that  I 
should  wear  just  as  many  as  I  pleased.  Then  he 
flew  into  a  passion  and  he  struck  me  .  .  ." 

She  burst  out  laughing: 


THE  LATER  LIFE  147 

"  I  flung  all  my  chemises  at  his  head ! "  she 
screamed,  hysterically.  "  And  he  flung  them  all 
back.  The  room  was  one  vast  chemise!  .  .  .  Oh, 
it's  terrible  .  .  .  It's  a  dog's  life.  I  won't  go  back 
to  him  .  .  .  Papa,  I  needn't  go  back  to  him,  need 
I?" 

"  Emilie,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  " 

She  threw  herself  upon  her  father,  crushed  her- 
self against  the  orders  on  his  breast: 

"  Oh,  Papa,  I  am  so  unhappy !  I  can't  stand  any 
more  of  it :  I  am  so  unhappy !  " 

Marianne  came  in.  She  was  looking  very  pretty: 
a  delicate,  fair  little  society-girl,  in  her  low-necked 
white  frock.  She  heard  Emilie's  last  words,  saw  her 
pale,  thin,  dishevelled: 

"Emilietje!  .  .  .  Sissy!  .  .  .  What  is  it?"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Oh,  that  horrid  man  I  It's  that  hor- 
rid man!  " 

Bertha  shut  her  eyes: 

"  Emilie,"  she  said,  wearily. 

"  Mamma,  don't  be  angry  .  .  .  but  I'm  stay- 
ing! " 

The  bell  rang. 

"  There's  the  bell,  Emilie !  "  said  Van  Naghel, 
sternly. 

"  I'm  going,  Papa  .  .  ." 

She  looked  around  her  in  perplexity,  not  knowing 
which  door  to  go  out  by. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  Louise,  quickly. 


i48  THE  LATER  LIFE 

And,  taking  Emilie  almost  in  her  arms,  she  hur- 
ried her  away. 

The  first  arrivals  were  coming  up  the  stairs. 
Louise  and  Emilie  just  managed  to  escape  into  a 
little  boudoir.  But  the  doors  were  open. 

"  We  can  run  across  the  passage  presently," 
whispered  Louise. 

"  Just  think,"  whispered  Emilie,  "  he's  absolutely 
mad!  He  interferes  with  the  cook's  housekeeping- 
book.  He  checks  what  she  spends  each  day  .  .  . 
He's  mad,  he's  mad !  He  won't  eat  at  meals,  so  as 
to  save  a  bit  of  meat  for  next  day.  And,  when  we 
give  a  little  dinner,  nothing's  good  enough.  It's  all 
for  people,  all  for  show :  he'd  starve,  in  order  to  give 
his  friends  champagne !  " 

"Hush,  Emilie!" 

They  heard  the  exchange  of  greetings  in  the  draw- 
ing-room; their  parents'  well-bred,  expressionless 
voices;  Marianne's  nervous,  tinkling  laugh;  Otto 
and  Frances  making  up  to  the  foreign  secretary. 
It  all  sounded  false.  The  bell  kept  on  ringing. 
More  guests  came  upstairs,  with  a  rustle  of  skirts,  a 
creaking  of  shoes  .  .  . 

"  We  can't  get  away !  "  said  Emilie,  plaintively, 
almost  collapsing  in  Louise's  arms. 

They  succeeded  in  running  upstairs  between  two 
rings  at  the  bell.  The  table  was  laid  in  the  nursery: 
Karel  and  Marietje  were  there,  playing  with  Otte- 
lientje  and  Huig;  the  baboe  sat  huddled  in  a  corner. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  149 

"I'll  have  something  with  you!"  said  Emilie. 
"  I'm  faint  with  hunger  .  .  .  What  a  day,  good 
God,  what  a  day!  " 

"  We'll  get  something  to  eat  in  between,"  said 
Louise.  "  Come,  Emilie,  come  to  my  room." 

And,  as  if  they  were  fleeing  again,  this  time 
from  the  children,  she  dragged  Emilie  up  to  her  own 


room. 
ti 


Emilie,  do  be  sensible !  "  she  implored. 

"  Louise,  I  mean  what  I  said,  give  me  a  glass  of 
wine,  a  biscuit,  anything:  I'm  sinking  .  .  ." 

Louise  went  out  and  Emilie  was  left  alone.  She 
looked  around  the  bright,  cosy  sitting-room,  stamped 
with  the  gentle  personality  of  its  owner:  there  were 
many  books  about;  the  doors  of  a  book-case  were 
open. 

"The  dear  girl!"  thought  Emilie,  lying  back 
wearily  in  a  chair.  "  She  lives  her  own  life  peace- 
fully .  .  .  and,  when  there's  anything  wrong,  she's 
the  one  who  helps.  Her  life  just  goes  on,  the  same 
thing  day  after  day !  She  was  a  girl  while  we  were 
still  children;  and,  properly  speaking,  we  never  knew 
her  as  we  know  one  another.  She's  fond  of  Otto, 
just  as  I'm  very  fond  of  Otto  .  .  .  but,  apart  from 
that,  her  life  just  goes  on  in  the  same  way  .  .  .  She's 
always  silent  .  .  .  She  just  lives  and  reads  up  here 
.  .  .  and,  if  there's  anything  wrong,  she's  the  one 
who  helps  .  .  .  What  have  I  done,  my  God,  what 
have  I  done!  .  .  .  But  I  won't  go  back!  .  .  ." 


1 50  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Louise  returned,  with  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  few 
biscuits. 

;<  We're  dining  presently,"  she  said.  "  There, 
drink  that  and  be  sensible,  Emilie.  Does  Eduard 
know  you're  here?  " 

"  No.  He  was  out  when  I  left.  I  waited  till  he 
was  out  .  .  .  Louise,  I  won't  go  back!  I've  tele- 
graphed to  Henri  to  help  me.  I'm  expecting  him 
here." 

They  heard  voices  below. 

"  Listen  1  "  said  Louise. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  Perhaps  it's  some  one  who  has  come  late  .  .  . 
But  that's  impossible  ...  I  hear  a  noise  on  the 
stairs  .  .  ." 

"My  God!"  cried  Emilie.  "It's  Eduard! 
Hide  me !  Say  you  don't  know  where  I  am !  " 

"  I  can't  do  that,  Emilie.  Keep  calm,  Emilie,  be 
sensible.  Go  to  my  bedroom,  if  you  like  .  .  ." 

Emilie  fled.  It  was  a  renewed  flight,  the  flutter- 
ing of  a  young  bird,  a  frail  butterfly,  hither  and 
thither.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  seeking,  vaguely 
and  anxiously.  .  .  .  She  and  Louise  had  to  go  down 
to  the  next  landing  and  Emilie  managed  to  escape  to 
Marianne's  room,  once  the  boudoir  which  they  had 
shared  between  them : 

"  My  own  little  room !  "  she  sobbed,  throwing 
herself  into  a  chair. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  151 

The  gas  was  half-lowered.  Everywhere  lay 
things  of  Marianne's;  the  dressing-table  was  in  dis- 
order, as  though  Marianne  had  had  to  dress  quickly 
and  hurriedly  for  the  dinner-party. 

"  How  nice  she  looked!  "  sobbed  Emilie.  "  My 
little  sister,  my  dear  little  sister  I  O  God,  they  say 
she's  in  love  with  Uncle  Henri  1  " 

She  sprang  up  again  in  nervous  restlessness,  turned 
the  gas  on,  looked  round,  anxiously,  feeling  lost,  even 
in  this  room : 

"  His  portrait!  "  she  cried.  "  Uncle  Henri's  por- 
trait!" 

She  saw  Van  der  Welcke's  photograph.  True,  it 
was  between  Constance'  and  Addie's;  but  there  was 
another  on  Marianne's  writing-table. 

"  My  little  sister,  my  poor  little  sister !  "  sobbed 
Emilie. 

And  she  dropped  limply  into  another  chair,  on  the 
top  of  a  corset  and  petticoats  of  Marianne's.  She 
lay  like  that,  with  drooping  arms,  among  her  sis- 
ter's things.  Suddenly  she  sat  up.  She  heard 
voices  outside,  in  the  passage:  Louise  with  Eduard, 
her  husband. 

"She's  mad,  she's  mad!"  he  was  snarling. 
"  She's  run  away !  The  servant  didn't  know  where 
to.  Where  is  she,  where  is  she?  " 

"  She's  here,"  said  Louise,  calmly. 

"Where?" 


152  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  She's  resting.  But  keep  calm,  Eduard,  and 
don't  let  them  hear  you  downstairs.  There's  a  din- 
ner-party." 

"  I  don't  care  1     I  insist  .  .  ." 

"  I  insist  that  you  keep  quiet  and  don't  make  a 
scene  .  .  ." 

"Where  is  Emilie?" 

"  If  you're  quiet,  you  can  speak  to  her.  If  you 
shout  like  that,  so  that  you  can  be  heard  downstairs, 
I'll  send  a  message  to  Papa." 

Emilie,  on  tenterhooks,  quivering  in  every  nerve, 
stood  up  and  opened  the  door : 

"  I  am  here,"  she  said. 

She  stood  in  front  of  her  husband.  He  was  no 
longer  the  dapper  nonentity;  he  stood  there  coarse, 
raving,  like  a  clod-hopper: 

"  You're  coming  home  with  me  I  "  he  shouted. 
"  This  minute !" 

"Eduard!"  Louise  entreated.  "Don't  shout. 
Come  in." 

She  pushed  him  into  Marianne's  room. 

"  You're  coming  home ! "  he  shouted  again. 
"Are  you  coming?  Are  you  coming?" 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Emilie. 

"You're  not?" 

"  No !     I  won't  go  back  to  you." 

"You've  got  to!" 

"  I  want  a  divorce." 

"  I  don't;  and  you're  coming  home." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  153 

"  I'm  not  going  home.  You've  struck  me  .  .  . 
and  I'm  placing  myself  under  my  father's  protec- 
tion. I  don't  know  the  law,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be 
struck  by  you." 

"  If  you  don't  come  .  .  .  I'll  make  you,  I'll 
thrash  you  to  the  door." 

She  gave  a  contemptuous  laugh: 

"  You're  not  a  man,"  she  said.  "  You're  a  cow- 
ardly brute !  " 

He  raved  as  though  beside  himself.  He  cursed 
and  foamed  at  the  mouth.  Louise  stared  at  him  in 
dismay;  hardly  knew  him,  now  that  he  had  lost  all 
his  veneer  of  manner,  all  his  German,  would-be  cor- 
rect politeness. 

"  Home  you  go !  "  he  roared  again,  pointing  to  the 
door  with  his  finger. 

"  I  am  not  going." 

He  flew  at  her,  seized  her  by  her  frail  shoulders, 
shook  her,  his  mouth  distorted  by  passion,  his  eyes 
starting  out  of  his  head,  like  a  madman's.  She 
writhed  herself  free,  struck  him  full  in  the  face.  He 
hit  her  back. 

"  Eduard!     Emilie!  "  screamed  Louise. 

Her  anger  gave  her  strength.  She  threw  herself 
upon  her  brother-in-law,  strong  in  her  indignation, 
pushed  him  away  from  his  wife. 

"  Go  away!  "  she  cried  aloud,  clasping  Emilie  in 
her  arms.  "  Go  away!  Out  of  the  room!  " 

"  I  want  my  wife  back!  " 


i54  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Louise  calmed  herself: 

"  Eduard,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  leave  the  room." 

"  No." 

"  Once  more,  Eduard,  leave  the  room,  or  I'll  send 
one  of  the  men  to  Papa.  If  you  want  to  make  a 
scandal,  very  well,  do;  but  you'll  be  the  chief  suf- 
ferer." 

He  suddenly  remembered  the  Hague,  his  ca- 
reer .  .  . 

"  Go  out  of  the  room,  Eduard." 

"  He's  hurt  me!  "  moaned  Emilie.  "  I've  got  a 
pain,  here  .  .  ." 

She  lay  like  a  dead  thing  in  her  sister's  arms. 

"  Eduard,  go  out  of  the  room." 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said.  "  But  I  shall  stay  until  the 
dinner  is  over  .  .  ." 

He  went  away. 

11  The  wretch !  The  wretch !  "  moaned  Emilie. 
"  He's  bruised  my  breast.  Lucky  that  he  did:  now 
I  can  get  a  divorce,  can't  I,  Louise?  .  .  .  Louise, 
do  you  know  the  law  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darling,  but  Papa  will  tell  you  all  about 
it.  But  keep  calm,  keep  calm  ..." 

"  Where  has  he  gone?  " 

"  If  you  don't  mind  being  left  alone,  I'll  go  and 
see  .  .  ." 

"  No,  stay  with  me,  stay  with  me  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Who's  there?" 


THE  LATER  LIFE  155 

An  old  nurse  entered: 

"  Freule,"  she  said  to  Louise,  "  meneer  asks  if 
you'll  please  not  talk  so  loud  up  here.  Meneer  can 
hear  Mr.  van  Raven's  voice." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  van  Raven  now?  " 

"  The  blackguard  has  gone  to  Mr.  Frans  and  Mr. 
Henri's  sitting-room." 

"  Very  well,  Leentje,  we'll  make  less  noise.  But 
you  mustn't  talk  like  that." 

"  It  hurts!  "  moaned  Emilie. 

The  woman  looked  at  her  compassionately: 

"  The  dirty  blackguard !  "  she  said.  "  Did  he  hit 
you,  my  poor  dear?  .  .  ." 

"  Leentje,  I  won't  have  you  speak  like  that!  "  said 
Louise. 

"And  I'll  tell  him  to  his  face  .  .  .  that  he's  a 
dirty  blackguard,"  the  old  nurse  insisted,  obstinately. 

She  knelt  beside  Emilie,  opened  the  girl's  blouse 
and  softly  rubbed  her  breast: 

"  The  blackguard!  "  she  repeated. 

The  sisters  let  her  alone.  They  were  silent,  all 
three;  the  room  was  all  in  confusion.  Emilie  had 
dropped  back  again  limply  among  Marianne's 
clothes.  Leentje  got  up  and  began  tidying. 

"  Louise,"  whispered  Emilie. 

"  My  poor  sissy!  " 

"  I  see  Uncle  Henri's  portrait  there  .  .  .  And 
there  .  .  .  And  another  over  there  .  .  .  Mari- 
anne's fond  of  Uncle  Henri  . 


156  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"Yes,  but  hush!" 

"  She's  fond  of  him  .  .  .  she's  in  love  with  him, 
Louise." 

"Yes,  I  know.     Hush,  Emilie!" 

"  Does  Mamma  know?  " 

"  We  don't  talk  about  it.     But  I  think  so." 

"  Does  everybody  know?  " 

"No,  no,  not  everybody!" 

"  Does  Marianne  never  talk  about  it?  " 

"  No,  never." 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done?  Aunt  Adolphine 
and  Aunt  Cateau  were  speaking  of  it  the  other  day. 
Everybody  knows  about  it." 

"  No,  no,  not  everybody,  surely?  " 

"  Yes,  everybody.  And  everybody  knows  too 
that  Eduard  beats  me  .  .  .  Louise !  " 

"  Ssh!     I  hear  voices." 

"That's  .  .  .  Henri!" 

"  Yes,  it's  Henri's  voice  .  .  ." 

"  And  Eduard  .  .  ." 

"Heavens!  .  .  .  Leentje!  "  cried  Louise.  "Go 
to  Mr.  Henri  and  Mr.  Eduard  and  tell  them  that 
Papa  doesn't  wish  them  to  speak  loud." 

"  The  blackguard!  "  said  Leentje. 

She  left  the  room  and  went  down  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  was  lit  up,  the  doors  of  the  reception- 
rooms  were  open;  one  caught  the  glitter  of  the  din- 
ner-table amid  its  flowers  and  the  sound  of  laughing 


THE  LATER  LIFE  157 

voices:  a  soft,  well-bred  society-ripple,  a  ring  of  sil- 
ver, a  faint  tinkling  of  crystal. 

"  The  blackguard!  "  thought  the  old  nurse. 

She  was  down  in  the  hall  now:  from  the  kitchen 
came  the  voices  of  bustling  maids,  of  the  chef,  the 
footmen.  The  cloak-room  was  lighted  and  open, 
was  full  of  wraps  and  overcoats.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  hall  was  the  sitting-room  of  the  two  under- 
graduates. 

Old  Leentje  opened  the  door.  She  saw  Van  Ra- 
ven standing  opposite  Henri;  their  voices  clashed, 
in  bitter  enmity: 

"  Then  why  did  Emilie  telegraph  to  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  but  our  affairs  don't  concern  you." 

"  Mr.  Henri,  Mr.  Eduard,"  said  the  old  nurse, 
"  your  papa  asks,  will  you  please  not  speak 
loud  .  .  ." 

"  Where  is  Emilie?  "  asked  Henri. 

"  The  poor  dear  is  in  Marianne's  room,"  said 
Leentje.  "  Come  with  me,  my  boy  .  .  ." 

She  took  Henri,  who  was  shaking  all  over,  by  the 
hand.  And,  as  she  left  the  room  with  Henri,  she 
said,  out  loud: 

"The  blackguard!" 

"Who?"  asked  Henri. 

"He!" 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"  What  hasn't  he  done !  " 


i58  THE  LATER  LIFE 

She  hesitated  to  tell  him,  dreading  his  temper, 
went  cautiously  up  the  stairs,  past  the  open  doors  of 
the  lighted  rooms. 

Henri  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dinner-table, 
through  the  flowers,  and  of  three  of  the  guests  talk- 
ing and  laughing,  lightly  and  pleasantly,  in  their 
well-bred,  expressionless  voices. 

And  then  he  found  his  two  sisters  in  Marianne's 
room.  As  soon  as  Emilie  saw  him,  she  threw  her- 
self into  his  arms: 

"Henri!" 

"Sissy,  what  is  it?" 

She  told  him,  briefly. 

"  The  cad !  "  he  cried.  "  The  cad!  Has  he  hit 
you?  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  rush  downstairs;  they  held  him 
back: 

"  Henri,  for  goodness'  sake,"  Louise  entreated, 
"  remember  there  are  people  here !  " 

"  Don't  you  all  want  your  dinner?  "  asked  Karel, 
at  the  door.  "  We're  starving." 

They  went  to  the  nursery,  as  it  had  been  called 
for  years,  and  sat  down  to  table. 

"  I'm  not  hungry  now,"  said  Emilie. 

"  I  don't  want  anything  either,"  said  Henri. 
"  I'm  calmer  now  .  .  .  and  I'm  going  downstairs." 

They  held  him  back  again.  And  the  time 
dragged  on.  Ottelientje  and  Huig  were  put  to  bed; 
Karel  went  to  do  his  home-work;  Marietje  hung 


THE  LATER  LIFE  159 

round  her  elder  sisters,  inquisitively.  And  they 
listened,  with  the  doors  open,  to  the  sounds  below. 

"  They've  finished  dinner  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  can  hear  them  in  the  drawing-room  .  .  ." 

Marianne  suddenly  came  running  upstairs,  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  looking  very  white  and 
sweet : 

"  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer!  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  The  dinner's  over.  I  escaped  for  a  moment. 
Emilie !  Sissy !  " 

"  He's  here !  "  said  Emilie.  "  Eduard:  he's  wait- 
ing downstairs.  He  wants  to  take  me  home  with 
him.  You  must  all  help  me.  He  struck  me !  " 

"  My  sissy,  my  sissy!  "  cried  Marianne,  excitedly, 
wringing  her  arms  and  her  hands,  kissing  Emilie. 
"  Is  he  downstairs?  I'll  tell  Papa.  I  daren't  stay 
any  longer.  Oh,  those  tiresome  people  down  there ! 
It's  nearly  nine.  They'll  be  gone  in  an  hour.  Now 
I  must  go." 

And  she  started  to  hurry  away. 

"  Marianne!  "  said  Henri. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  presently." 

"  Very  well,  presently." 

And  she  flitted  down  the  stairs. 

"  How  pretty  she's  growing!  "  said  Henri. 

"  And  I,"  said  Emilie,  "  so  ugly!  " 

She  leant  against  Louise.  They  heard  a  rustle 
on  the  stairs.  It  was  Bertha  herself : 


160  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"My  child!" 

"Mamma!" 

"  I  managed  to  slip  away,  just  for  a  moment. 
My  dear  child!" 

"  Eduard  is  here,  Mamma.  He's  downstairs. 
He  wants  to  take  me  away  with  him.  He  is  waiting 
till  the  people  are  gone.  He  was  shouting  so.  .  .  ." 

"  I  heard  him." 

"  We  told  him  to  be  quiet.  I  won't  go  with  him, 
Mamma.  I'll  stay  with  you,  I'll  stay  with  you.  He 
struck  me !  " 

"  The  cad!  "  cried  Henri,  pale  in  the  face. 

"  The  dirty  blackguard !  "  said  the  old  nurse. 

Bertha,  very  pale,  shut  her  eyes,  heaved  a  deep 
sigh: 

"  My  child,  my  dear  child  ...  be  sensible,  make 
it  up." 

"  But  he  is  brutal  to  me,  Mamma !  " 

She  flung  herself,  sobbing,  into  Bertha's  arms. 

"  My  darling !  "  Bertha  wept.  "  I  can't  stay 
away  any  longer." 

She  released  herself,  went  away;  her  dress  rustled 
down  the  stairs.  Her  guests  were  sitting  in  the 
drawing-room;  one  or  two  looked  at  her  strangely, 
because  she  had  absented  herself.  In  a  moment  she 
was  once  more  the  tactful,  charming  hostess. 

Marianne,  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  had  gone  to 
Van  Naghel's  study,  where  the  men  were  having 
their  coffee,  smoking: 


THE  LATER  LIFE  161 

"  Papa  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Eduard  is  downstairs !  "  she  whispered.  "  I 
only  came  to  tell  you.  He  wants  to  take  Emilie 
with  him.  He  has  struck  her." 

"  Tell  him  I'll  speak  to  him  ...  as  soon  as  our 
visitors  have  gone." 

And,  as  the  host,  he  turned  to  his  guests  again. 

Marianne  went  downstairs,  found  Eduard  in  the 
boys'  sitting-room.  He  was  quietly  smoking. 

"  Papa  will  speak  to  you  as  soon  as  they're  all 
gone.  The  carriages  will  be  here  in  three-quarters 
of  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  laconically. 

Her  blood  seethed  up : 

"You're  a  cowardly  wretch!"  she  cried. 
"  You've  struck  Emilie !  " 

He  flared  up,  losing  all  his  stiff  German  society- 
manners  : 

"  And  I'm  her  husband!  "  he  roared.  "  But  you 
...  you  ..  ." 

"What  about  me?" 

"You've  no  decency!  You're  in  love  with  your 
uncle !  With  a  married  man !  " 

"O-o-oh!"  screamed  Marianne. 

She  hid  her  face  with  her  hands,  terrified.  Then 
she  recovered  herself,  but  her  pale  face  flushed  red 
with  shame : 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying!  "  she  said, 


1 62  THE  LATER  LIFE 

haughtily,  trying  to  withdraw  into  her  maidenly  re- 
serve. "  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.  But 
your  manners  are  only  put  on,  for  strangers.  And 
at  heart  you're  a  cowardly  cad,  a  cowardly  cad,  who 
strikes  and  insults  women." 

He  made  an  angry  movement  at  her  words. 

"  You're  not  going  to  strike  me,  I  suppose?  "  she 
said,  drawing  herself  up  haughtily.  "  You've  in- 
sulted me:  isn't  that  enough  for  you?  " 

She  made  an  effort  to  turn  away  calmly,  walked 
out  of  the  room,  up  the  stairs.  The  sobs  welled  up 
in  her  throat;  she  could  no  longer  keep  them  back: 

"  O  God!  "  she  thought.  "  Everybody  knows  it. 
Everybody  sees  it.  I  can't  keep  it  hidden:  I  love 
him,  I  love  him !  .  .  .  Hush !  Hush !  I  must  sup- 
press it,  deep,  deep  down  in  myself.  But,  if  I  love 
him,  if  I  love  him  ...  if  I  am  happy  when  I  see 
him  .  .  .  Oh,  hush,  hush !  " 

She  pressed  her  two  hands  to  her  breast,  as 
though  to  thrust  her  emotion  deep  down  in  her  soul. 
She  wiped  her  eyes,  had  the  strength  to  return  to  the 
drawing-room.  She  talked  gaily  and  pleasantly,  as 
the  daughter  of  the  house,  but  she  suddenly  felt 
tired  to  death: 

"  Everybody  knows  it,  everybody  sees  it,"  she 
kept  on  thinking;  and  she  tried  to  read  in  the  faces 
of  the  guests  what  they  saw,  what  they  knew. 

It  was  over  at  last.  The  butler  was  continually 
coming  to  the  door,  announcing  the  carriages. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  163 

Those  people  would  not  remain  much  longer.  It 
was  ten  o'clock;  and  they  began  to  say  good-bye. 
They  followed  one  after  the  other,  at  short  inter- 
vals, as  is  proper  at  big  dinner-parties  .  .  .  There 
was  only  one  of  the  ministers  left,  talking  earnestly 
to  Van  Naghel,  in  a  low  voice,  probably  about  some 
government  matter :  he  was  not  thinking  yet  of  going 
.  .  .  But  at  last  he  also  hastened  away,  apologi- 
zing. And  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha,  Marianne, 
Frances  and  Otto  all  listened  while  he  put  on  his 
overcoat  downstairs,  said  a  word  to  the  butler  .  .  . 
The  front-door  slammed.  They  were  alone. 

They  looked  at  one  another  .  .  . 

And,  as  if  driven  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  Van 
Naghel  went  downstairs,  to  his  son-in-law,  and  Ber- 
tha and  Marianne  upstairs,  to  Emilie  .  .  . 

"Mamma,  have  you  come  to  me  at  last?"  said 
Emilie,  plaintively.  "  Mamma,  I  shall  stay  here : 
I  won't  go  back  .  .  ." 

She  was  clutching  Henri  desperately;  and  Mari- 
anne went  up  to  her,  comforted  her,  kissed  her. 

"  Marianne,"  said  Henri,  "  here,  a  minute  .  .  ." 

He  led  her  out  into  the  passage : 

"  Marianne,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  know  how  fond 
I  am  of  you  .  .  .  almost  as  fond  as  of  Emilie. 
Marianne,  let  me  just  say  this  to  you:  be  sensible; 
everybody's  talking  about  it  .  .  ." 

"Everybody?"  she  asked,  frightened;  and  she 
did  not  even  ask  what  it  was,  because  she  understood. 


1 64  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"You  even  know  it  yourself  then?"  he  asked, 
quickly,  to  take  her  by  surprise. 

She  withdrew  into  the  mysterious  recesses  of  her 
little  soul,  which  was  too  transparent,  reflected  its 
radiance  too  much;  she  wanted  to  veil  that  radiance 
from  him  and  from  the  others: 

"  What?  "  she  said.  "  There's  nothing  to  know ! 
.  .  .  Everybody?  Everybody  who?  Everybody 
what?  .  .  ." 

"  Everybody's  talking  about  it,  about  Uncle 
Henri's  making  love  to  you?  " 

She  tried  to  laugh;  and  the  little  silver  bells 
sounded  shrill  and  false: 

"Making  love  to  me?  .  .  .  Uncle  Henri?  .  .  . 
People  are  mad!  " 

"  You  were  out  with  him  yesterday  ...  in  a  mo- 
tor-car." 

"  And  what  is  there  in  that?  " 

"  Don't  do  it  again." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Everybody's  talking  about  it." 

Again  she  tried  to  laugh ;  and  the  little  silver  bells 
sounded  shrill  and  false : 

"  Uncle  Henri!  "  she  said.  "  Why,  he  might  be 
my  father !  " 

"  You  know  you  don't  mean  what  you  say." 

"Uncle  Henri!" 

"  He  is  a  young  man  .  .  .  Marianne,  tell  me 
that  it's  not  true  .  ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  165 

'  That  he  makes  love  to  me?  I'm  fond  of  him 
.  .  .  just  as  I'm  fond  of  Aunt  Constance." 

;'  That  you  love  him.  There,  you  can't  deny  it. 
You  love  him." 

"  I  do  not  love  him,"  she  lied. 

"  Yes,  you  do,  you  love  him." 

"  I  do  not  love  him." 

"  Yes,  you  do." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  do!  "  she  said,  curtly.  "  I 
love  him.  What  then?  " 

"  Marianne  .  .  ." 

"  I  like  being  with  him,  like  talking  to  him,  cycling 
with  him,  motoring  with  him:  what  then?  There's 
no  harm  in  it;  and  ...  I  love  Aunt  Constance 
too." 

"  Marianne,  I've  warned  you,"  he  said,  sadly. 
"  Be  sensible." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  But  you  be  sensible 
also." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Be  sensible  with  Eduard !  Control  your  tem- 
per, Henri!  It  can  only  make  things  worse,  if  you 
don't  control  your  temper." 

"  I  will  control  myself !  "  he  promised,  clench- 
ing his  fists  as  he  spoke. 

11  Henri  .  .  ." 

"  I  hate  the  bounder  ...  I  could  murder  him, 
wring  his  neck." 

"  Henri,  be  quiet,  I  hear  Papa  coming;." 


1 66  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Promise  me,  Marianne,  that  you  will  be  care- 
ful." 

*  Yes,  Henri.  And  you  promise  me  also,  Henri, 
that  you  will  be  careful." 

"  I  promise  you." 

She  went  up  to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck : 

"  My  brother,  my  poor  brother!  " 

"  My  dear  little  sister,  my  little  sister !  " 

"Hush,  hush!  .  .  ." 

"Hush!  .  .  ." 

"  Here's  Papa  .  .  ." 

Van  Naghel  came  up  the  stairs. 

And  they  went  with  him  into  the  nursery,  where 
Bertha  was  waiting  with  Emilie,  Otto  and  Fran- 
ces. 

"  Eduard  has  gone  now,"  said  Van  Naghel, 
quietly.  "I  calmed  him  down;  he  is  coming  back 
to-morrow,  to  talk  things  over.  You  can  stay  here 
to-night,  Emilie." 

"  Papa,  I  won't  go  back  to  him !  " 

"  No,  Emilie,"  cried  Frances,  excitedly,  "  you 
can't  go  back  to  him !  " 

"  Be  quiet,  Frances,"  said  Van  Naghel,  severely. 
And  he  repeated,  "  You  .  .  .  can  .  .  .  stay  here, 
Emilie  .  .  .  to-night  .  .  ." 

He  suddenly  turned  purple. 

"  Tell  me  what  the  law  is,  Papa,"  Emilie  insisted. 

"The  law?"  asked  Van  Naghel.  "The 
law?  .  ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  167 

And,  almost  black  in  the  face,  he  pulled  at  his 
collar. 

"  Bertha !  "  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

They  were  all  terrified  .  .  . 

He  tore  open  his  collar,  his  tie,  his  shirt: 

"Air!  "  he  implored. 

And  his  eyes  started  from  his  head,  he  staggered, 
fell  into  a  chair. 

Louise  rang  the  bell.  The  girls  screamed  for  the 
maids,  the  butler.  Henri  flew  down  the  stairs  to 
fetch  a  doctor. 

It  was  was  too  late  .  .  . 

Van  Naghel  lay  dead,  struck  down  by  apoplexy. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  winter  months  dragged  sadly  and  monoto- 
nously past,  with  their  continual  rains  and  no  frost: 
even  such  snow  as  fell  melted  at  once  in  the  raw, 
damp  atmosphere.  But  the  wind  blew  all  the  time, 
kept  on  blowing  from  some  mysterious  cloud-realm, 
carrying  the  clouds  with  it,  violet  clouds  and  grey 
clouds,  a  never-ending  succession,  which  came  sail- 
ing over  the  trees  in  the  Woods  as  though  over  the 
sea.  And  Constance  followed  them  with  her  eyes, 
vaguely  and  dreamily,  dreaming  on  and  on  in  an 
endless  reverie.  The  clouds  sailed  everlastingly 
on  the  wind;  and  the  wind  blew  everlastingly, 
like  an  everlasting  storm,  not  always  raging,  but  al- 
ways rustling,  sometimes  high  up  above  the  trees, 
sometimes  straight  through  the  trees  themselves. 
Constance  remained  mostly  at  home  and  sat  by 
her  window  during  those  short  afternoons,  which  she 
lengthened  out  in  the  dim  shadows  of  the  fire-lit 
room,  where  at  three  o'clock  dusk  was  falling  .  .  . 
The  everyday  life  went  on,  regularly  and  monoto- 
nously: when  the  weather  was  tolerable,  Van  der 
Welcke  went  bicycling;  but  for  the  rest  he  stayed 
upstairs  a  great  deal,  seldom  going  ro  the  Witte  or 
the  Plaats,  smoking,  cursing  inwardly  because  he 
was  not  rich  enough  to  buy  a  "  sewing-machine  "  of 

168 


THE  LATER  LIFE  169 

his  own.  Addle  went  to  and  fro  between  home  and 
school;  and  it  was  he  that  enlivened  the  meals  .  .  . 
And  Constance,  in  her  drawing-room,  sat  at  the 
window  and  gazed  at  the  clouds,  looked  out  at  the 
rain.  Through  the  silent  monotony  of  her  short, 
grey  days  a  dream  began  to  weave  itself,  as  with  a 
luminous  thread,  so  that  she  was  not  oppressed  by 
the  sombre  melancholy  of  the  rainy  winter.  When 
Van  der  Welcke  went  upstairs,  cursing  because  it 
was  raining  again  and  because  he  had  nothing  to  do, 
she  settled  herself  in  her  drawing-room  —  in  that 
room  in  which  she  lived  and  which  was  tinged  as  it 
were  with  her  own  personality  —  and  looked  out  at 
the  clouds,  at  the  rain.  She  sat  dreaming.  She 
smiled,  wide-eyed.  She  liked  the  ever  louring  skies, 
the  ever  drifting  clouds;  and,  though  at  times  the 
gusty  squalls  still  made  her  start  with  that  sudden 
catch  in  her  throat  and  breast,  she  loved  the  raging 
and  rustling  winds,  listened  to  them,  content  for 
them  to  blow  and  blow,  high  above  her  head,  her 
house,  her  trees  —  hers  —  till,  blowing,  they  lost 
themselves  in  the  infinities  beyond  .  .  .  She  had  her 
work  beside  her,  a  book;  but  she  did  not  sew,  did  not 
read :  she  dreamt  .  .  .  She  smiled,  looking  out,  look- 
ing up  at  the  endlessly  rolling  skies  .  .  .  The  clouds 
sailed  by,  sometimes  high,  sometimes  low,  above 
the  houses,  above  the  people's  heads,  like  passions 
disdaining  mankind:  dank,  monstrous  passions  ri- 
ding arrogantly  by  upon  the  passion  of  the  winds, 


170  THE  LATER  LIFE 

from  a  far-off  land  of  sheer  passion,  sullen  and  tem- 
pestuous; and  the  threatening  cohorts  rolled  on, 
great  and  majestic,  like  Olympian  deities  towering 
above  the  petty  human  strife  hidden  under  the  roofs 
over  which  they  passed,  ever  opening  their  mighty 
flood-gates  .  .  .  When  Constance  looked  up  at 
them,  the  vast,  phantom  monsters,  coming  she  knew 
not  whence  and  going  she  knew  not  whither,  just 
shadowing  across  her  life  and  followed  by  new  mon- 
sters, no  less  vast  and  no  less  big  with  mystery,  she 
was  not  afraid  or  sad,  for  she  felt  safe  in  her  dream. 
The  sombre  skies  had  always  attracted  her,  even  in 
the  old  days,  though  they  used  to  frighten  her  then, 
she  did  not  know  why;  but  now,  now  for  the  first 
time  she  smiled,  because  she  felt  safe.  A  soft  radi- 
ance shone  from  her  eyes,  which  gazed  up  at  the 
phantom  monsters.  When  the  wind  whistled, 
soughed,  moaned  and  bellowed  round  the  house,  like 
a  giant  soul  in  pain,  she  remained  as  it  were  looking 
up  at  the  wind,  let  her  soul  swell  softly  in  unison  with 
its  dirges,  like  something  that  surrenders  itself,  small 
and  weak  but  peaceful,  to  a  mighty  force.  In  her 
little  house,  as  she  gazed  out  at  the  dreary  road,  on 
these  winter  days,  especially  when  it  grew  dark  of  an 
afternoon,  the  wind  and  the  rain  round  about  her 
seemed  almost  one  element,  vast  and  sad  as  life, 
which  came  from  over  the  sea,  which  drifted  away 
over  the  town  and  which  continued  to  hold  her  and 
her  house  in  its  embrace  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  171 

She  looked  outside,  she  smiled.  Sometimes  she 
heard  her  husband's  step  in  the  passages,  as  he  went 
through  the  house,  grumbling,  muttering,  cursing,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  go  out  .  .  .  Then  she  would 
think  for  a  moment: 

"  He  hasn't  seen  Marianne  for  days." 

But  then  she  would  think  no  more  about  either  of 
them;  and  her  dream  shone  out  before  her  again. 
The  dream  shone  softly  and  unfalteringly,  like  a 
gentle,  steady  ray:  a  path  of  soft  light  that  issued 
as  it  were  from  her  eyes  to  the  sombre,  frown- 
ing clouds  out  yonder.  Over  the  soft-shining  path 
something  seemed  to  be  wafted  from  her  outwards, 
upwards,  far  and  wide  and  then  back  again,  to  where 
she  sat  ...  It  was  so  strange  that  she  smiled  at 
it,  closed  her  eyes;  and,  when  she  opened  them,  it 
was  once  more  as  though  she  saw  her  dream,  that 
path  of  light,  always  .  .  .  Her  dream  took  no  more 
definite  shape  and  remained  thus,  a  gentle,  kindly 
glow,  a  pale,  soft  ray  from  her  to  the  sombre  skies 
...  It  was  dusk  now  and  she  sat  on,  quite  lost  in 
the  misty,  shadowy  darkness  all  around  her,  quite 
invisible  in  the  black  room;  and  her  eyes  continued 
to  stare  outside,  at  the  last  wan  streaks  in  the  dark- 
ening heavens  .  .  .  The  road  outside  was  black 
...  A  street-lamp  shone  out,  throwing  its  harsh 
light  upon  a  puddle  .  .  . 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
ashamed  because  she  had  sat  musing  so  long, 


172  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ashamed  especially  because  she  had  allowed  herself 
to  wander  along  that  luminous  thread,  the  path  of 
her  dream  .  .  .  She  rang,  had  the  lamps  lit  and 
waited  for  Addie,  who  would  soon  be  home. 

But  those  were  the  lonely  afternoons  .  .  .  Some- 
times in  those  wet,  dull  afternoons  when  it  grew  dark 
so  early,  she  saw  his  figure  pass  the  window,  heard 
him  ring.  It  was  Brauws.  She  did  not  move  and 
she  heard  him  go  upstairs  first,  when  Van  der  Welcke 
was  in.  But,  since  he  had  recommenced  his  visits 
to  their  house,  he  had  got  into  the  way  of  saying 
to  Van  der  Welcke,  in  half  an  hour  or  so : 

"  Now  I'll  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  your  wife." 
The  first  few  times,  Van  der  Welcke  had  gone 
with  him  to  the  drawing-room;  but,  now  that  Brauws 
had  taken  to  calling  in  a  more  informal  fashion,  Van 
der  Welcke  stayed  upstairs,  let  him  go  his  own  way. 
And,  after  the  first  shock  which  Brauws'  ideas  had 
produced  in  their  house,  his  friendship  became  some- 
thing cheering  and  comforting  which  both  Van  der 
Welcke  and  Constance  continued  to  appreciate  for 
their  own  and  each  other's  sakes.  He  and  Van 
Vreeswijck  were  now  the  only  friends  whom  they 
both  really  liked,  the  two  regular  visitors  to  their 
otherwise  lonely  house.  And  for  that  reason  Van 
der  Welcke  let  Brauws  go  to  Constance  alone,  stay- 
ing away,  never  entering  his  wife's  drawing-room 
unnecessarily  .  .  .  except  when  he  heard  the  little 
bells  of  Marianne's  voice  and  laugh. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  173 

Constance'  heart  beat  when  she  heard  Brauws' 
voice  on  the  stairs: 

"  Now  I'll  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  your  wife. 
She's  at  home,  isn't  she?  " 

"  Sure  to  be,  in  this  beastly  weather." 

She  heard  Brauws'  step,  which  made  the  stairs 
creak  as  it  came  down  them.  Then  she  felt  a  violent 
emotion,  of  which  she  was  secretly  ashamed,  ashamed 
for  herself.  For  she  was  severe  with  herself:  she 
was  afraid  of  becoming  ridiculous  in  her  own  eyes. 
When  she  felt  her  emotion  grow  too  violent,  she  at 
once  conjured  up  Addie's  image:  he  was  fourteen 
now.  The  mother  of  a  son  of  fourteen!  Then  a 
smile  of  ironic  indulgence  would  curve  the  dimples 
by  her  lips;  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  composure 
that  she  welcomed  Brauws: 

"  Isn't  it  dark  early?  But  it's  only  half-past  three 
and  really  too  soon  to  light  the  lamp." 

"  There  are  times  when  twilight  upsets  me,"  he 
said,  "  and  times  when  it  makes  me  feel  very  calm 
and  peaceful." 

He  sat  down  near  her,  contentedly,  and  his  broad 
figure  loomed  darkly  in  the  little  room,  among  the 
other  shadows.  The  street-lamps  were  already 
lighted  outside,  glittering  harshly  on  the  wet  road. 

"  It's  been  awful  weather  lately." 

"  Yes,  so  I  prefer  to  stay  indoors." 

"  You're  too  much  indoors." 

"  I  go  out  whenever  it's  fine." 


i74  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  You  don't  care  for  going  out c  in  all  weathers/  ' 

"  I  like  looking  at  the  weather  from  here.  It's  a 
different  sky  every  day  .  .  ." 

Then  they  talked  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  He 
often  spoke  of  Addie,  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm  which 
he  had  conceived  for  the  lad.  Her  face  would  glow 
with  pride  as  she  listened.  And,  almost  involunta- 
rily, she  told  him  how  the  boy  had  always  been  a 
comfort  to  them,  to  Van  der  Welcke  as  well  as  to 
her.  And,  when  she  mentioned  her  husband's  name, 
he  often  answered,  as  though  with  a  touch  of  re- 
proach: 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  Hans.  He  is  a  child;  and  still 
I'm  fond  of  him  .  .  ." 

Then  she  would  feel  ashamed,  because  she  had  just 
had  a  wordy  dispute  with  Van  der  Welcke  —  about 
nothing  at  all  —  and  she  would  veer  round  and  say : 

"  It  can't  be  helped.  We  can  not  get  on.  We 
endure  each  other  as  well  as  we  can.  To  separate 
would  be  too  silly  .  .  .  and  also  very  sad  for  Addie. 
He  is  fond  of  both  of  us." 

And  their  conversation  again  turned  on  the  boy. 
Then  she  had  to  tell  him  about  Brussels  and  even 
about  Rome. 

"  It's  strange,"  he  said.  "  When  you  were  in 
Brussels  ...  I  was  living  at  Schaerbeek." 

"  And  we  never  met." 

"  No,  never.  And,  when  you  and  Hans  went  to 
the  Riviera,  I  was  there  in  the  same  year." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  175, 

"  Did  you  come  often  to  Monte  Carlo?  " 

"  Once  or  twice,  at  any  rate.  Attracted  by  just 
that  vivid  contrast  between  the  atmosphere  out  there, 
where  money  has  no  value,  and  my  own  ideas.  It 
was  a  sort  of  self-inflicted  torture.  And  we  never 
saw  each  other  there  .  .  .  And,  when  you  were  here, 
in  the  Hague,  as  a  girl,  I  used  often  to  come  to  the 
Hague  and  I  even  remember  often  passing  your 
parents'  house,  where  your  mother  still  lives,  in  the 
Alexanderstraat,  and  reading  your  name  on  the  door : 
Van  Lowe  ..." 

"  We  were  destined  never  to  meet,"  she  said,  try- 
ing to  laugh  softly;  and  in  spite  of  herself  her  voice 
broke,  as  though  sadly. 

"  No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  we  were  destined  not  to 
meet." 

"  The  fatality  of  meeting  is  sometimes  very 
strange,"  she  said. 

"  There  are  thousands  and  millions,  in  our 
lives  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  we  often,  day  after  day, 
for  months  on  end,  pass  quite  close  to  somebody  .  .  ." 

"  Somebody  who,  if  we  met  him  or  her,  would  in- 
fluence our  lives?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean." 

"  I'm  certain  of  it." 

"  It's  curious  to  think  of  ...  In  the  street, 
sometimes,  one's  always  meeting  the  same  people, 
without  knowing  them." 


176  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  In  New  York, 
when  I  was  a  tram-driver,  there  was  a  woman  who 
always  got  into  my  car;  and,  without  being  in  love 
with  her,  I  used  to  think  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
her,  to  know  her,  to  meet  her  .  .  ." 

"  And  how  often  it  is  the  other  way  round !  I 
have  met  thousands  of  people  and  forgotten  their 
names  and  what  they  said  to  me.  They  were  like 
ghosts.  That  is  how  we  meet  people  in  society." 

"  Yes,  it's  all  so  futile  .  .  ." 

"  You  exchange  names,  exchange  a  few  sentences 
.  .  .  and  nothing  remains,  not  the  slightest  recol- 
lection .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  it  all  vanishes." 

"  I  was  so  often  tired  ...  of  so  many  people,  so 
many  ghosts  ...  I  couldn't  live  like  that  now." 

"  Yet  you  have  remained  a  society-woman." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  no  longer  that !  " 

And  she  told  him  how  she  had  once  thought  of 
making  her  reappearance  in  Hague  society;  she  told 
him  about  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha. 

"  Are  you  on  bad  terms  with  your  sister  now?  " 

"  Not  on  bad  terms  .  .  ." 

"  He  died  suddenly  ...    ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  suddenly.  They  had  just  had  a  din- 
ner-party ...  It  was  a  terrible  blow  for  my  sister. 
And  I  hear  there  are  serious  financial  difficulties.  It 
is  all  very  sad  .  .  .  But  this  doesn't  interest  you. 
Tell  me  about  yourself." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  177 

"Again?" 

"  It  interests  me." 

"  Tell  me  about  your  own  life." 

"  I've  just  been  telling  you." 

"  Yes,  about  Rome  and  Brussels.  Now  tell  me 
about  Buitenzorg." 

"Why  about  that?" 

"  The  childhood  of  my  friends  —  I  hope  I  may 
number  you  among  my  friends?  —  always  interests 
me." 

"  About  Buitenzorg?  I  don't  remember  any- 
thing ...  I  was  a  little  girl  .  .  .  There  was  no- 
thing in  particular  .  .  ." 

"  Your  brother  Gerrit  .  .  ." 

She  turned  pale,  but  he  did  not  see  it,  in  the  dim 
room. 

"  What  has  he  been  saying?  " 

"  Your  brother  Gerrit  remembers  it  all.  The 
other  night,  after  your  dinner  here,  he  told  me  about 
it  while  we  were  smoking." 

"  Gerrit?  "  she  said,  anxiously. 

"  Yes :  how  prettily  you  used  to  play  on  the  great 
boulders  in  the  river  .  .  ." 

She  flushed  scarlet,  in  the  friendly  dusk: 

"He's  mad!"  she  said,  harshly.  "What  does 
he  want  to  talk  about  that  for?  " 

He  laughed: 

"Mayn't  he?  He  idolizes  you  .  .  .  and  he 
idolized  you  at  that  time  .  .  ." 


i78  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  He's  always  teasing  me  with  those  reminiscences 
.  .  .  They're  ridiculous  now." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I'm  old.  Those  memories  are  pretty 
enough  when  you  are  young  .  .  .  When  you  grow 
older,  you  let  them  sleep  ...  in  the  dead,  silent 
years.  For,  when  you're  old,  they  become  ridicu- 
lous." 

Her  voice  sounded  hard.     He  was  silent. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  right?  "  she  asked. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "  Perhaps  you 
are  right.  But  it  is  a  pity." 

"  Why?  "  she  forced  herself  to  ask. 

He  gave  a  very  deep  sigh: 

"  Because  it  reminds  us  of  all  that  we  lose  as  we 
grow  older  .  .  .  even  the  right  to  our  memories." 

"  The  right  to  our  memories,"  she  echoed  almost 
under  her  breath.  And,  in  a  firmer  voice,  she  re- 
peated, severely,  "  Certainly.  When  we  grow  older, 
we  lose  our  right  .  .  .  There  are  memories  to 
which  we  lose  our  right  as  we  grow  old  .  .  ." 

'  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  is  it  hard  for  a  woman  to 
grow  old?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  softly.  "  I  believe 
that  I  shall  grow  old,  that  I  am  growing  old  as  it  is, 
without  finding  it  hard." 

"  But  you're  not  old,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  forty-three,"  she  replied,  "  and  my  son  is 
fourteen." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  179 

She  was  determined  to  show  herself  no  mercy. 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  went  on. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  asked,  almost  dejectedly. 
"  You  would  never  understand  me,  however  long  I 
spoke.  No,  I  can't  speak  about  myself  to-day." 

"  It's  not  only  to-day:  it's  very  often." 

"  Yes,  very  often.  The  idea  suddenly  comes  to 
me  ...  that  everything  has  been  of  no  use.  That 
I  have  done  nothing  that  was  worth  while.  That 
my  life  ought  to  have  been  quite  different  ...  to  be 
worth  while." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  worth  while  ?  " 

"  Worth  while  for  people,  for  humanity.  It  al- 
ways obsessed  me,  after  my  games  in  the  woods. 
You  remember  my  telling  you  how  I  used  to  play  in 
the  woods? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  very  softly. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  suddenly  broke  in.  "  Are  those 
memories  to  which  I  have  no  right?  " 

"  You  are  a  man,"  said  she. 

"  Have  I  more  right  to  memories,  as  a  man?  " 

"  Why  not  ...  to  these  ? "  she  said,  softly. 
"  They  do  not  make  your  years  ridiculous  ...  as 
mine  do  mine." 

"  Are  you  so  much  afraid  ...  of  ridicule?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  frankly.  "  I  am  as  unwilling  to 
be  ashamed  in  my  own  eyes  ...  as  in  those  of  the 
world." 

"  So  you  abdicate  .  .  ." 


i8o  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  My  youth,"  she  said,  gently. 

He  was  silent.     Then  he  said : 

"  I  interrupted  myself  just  now.  I  meant  to  tell 
you  that,  after  my  games  as  a  child,  it  was  always 
my  obsession  ...  to  be  something.  To  be  some- 
body. To  be  a  man.  To  be  a  man  among  men. 
That  was  when  I  was  a  boy  of  sixteen  or  seventeen. 
Afterwards,  at  the  university,  I  was  amazed  at  the 
childishness  of  Hans  and  Van  Vreeswijck  and  the 
others.  They  never  thought;  I  was  always  thinking 
...  I  worked  hard,  I  wanted  to  know  everything. 
When  I  knew  a  good  deal,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Why 
go  on  learning  all  this  that  others  have  thought  out? 
Think  things  out  for  yourself ! '  .  .  .  Then  I  had  a 
feeling  of  utter  helplessness  .  .  .  But  I'm  boring 
you." 

"  No,"  she  said,  impatiently. 

"  I  felt  utterly  helpless  .  .  .  Then  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  If  you  can't  think  things  out,  do  something. 
Be  somebody.  Be  a  man.  Work !  '  .  .  .  Then  I 
read  Marx,  Fourier,  Saint-Simon:  do  you  know 
them?" 

"  I've  never  read  them,"  said  she,  "  but  I've  heard 
their  names  often  enough  to  follow  you.  Go  on." 

"  When  I  had  read  them,  I  started  thinking,  I 
thought  a  great  deal  .  .  .  and  then  I  wanted  to 
work.  As  a  labourer.  So  as  to  understand  all  those 
who  were  destitute  .  .  .  God,  how  difficult  words 
are!  I  simply  can't  speak  to  you  about  myself." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  181 

"  And  about  Peace  you  speak  ...  as  if  you  were 
inspired!  " 

"  About  Peace  .  .  .  perhaps,  but  not  about  my- 
self. I  went  to  America,  I  became  a  workman. 
But  the  terrible  thing  was  that  I  felt  I  was  not  a 
workman.  I  had  money.  I  gave  it  all  to  the  poor 
.  .  .  nearly.  But  I  kept  just  enough  never  to  be 
hungry,  to  live  a  little  more  comfortably  than  my 
mates,  to  take  a  day's  rest  when  I  was  tired,  to  buy 
meat  and  wine  and  medicines  when  I  wanted  them 
...  to  go  to  the  theatre  dressed  as  a  gentleman. 
Do  you  understand?  I  was  a  Sunday  workman.  I 
was  an  amateur  labourer.  I  remained  a  gentleman, 
a  '  toff.'  I  come  of  a  good  middle-class  family: 
well,  over  there,  in  America,  while  I  was  a  workman, 
I  remained  —  I  became  even  more  than  I  had  been 
—  an  aristocrat.  I  felt  that  I  was  far  above  my 
fellow-workmen.  I  knew  more  than  they,  I  knew  a 
great  deal:  they  could  tell  it  by  listening  to  me.  I 
was  finer-grained,  more  delicately  constituted  than 
they:  they  could  tell  it  by  looking  at  me.  They  re- 
garded me  as  a  wastrel  who  had  been  kicked  out  of 
doors,  who  had  'seen  better  days;'  but  they  con- 
tinued to  think  me  a  gentleman  and  I  myself  felt  a 
gentleman,  a  '  toff.'  I  never  became  a  proper  work- 
man. I  should  have  liked  to,  so  as  to  understand! 
the  workman  thoroughly  and  afterwards,  in  the  light 
of  my  knowledge,  to  work  for  his  welfare,  back  in 
my  own  country,  in  my  own  station  of  life.  But, 


1 82  THE  LATER  LIFE 

though  I  was  living  among  working  people,  I  did  not 
understand  them.  I  shuddered  involuntarily  at  their 
jokes,  their  oaths,  their  drinking,  their  friendship 
even.  I  remained  a  gentleman,  a  '  toff.'  I  re- 
mained of  a  different  blood  and  a  different  culture. 
My  ideas  and  my  theories  would  have  had  me 
resemble  my  mates;  but  all  my  former  life  —  my 
birth,  my  upbringing,  my  education  —  all  my  own 
and  my  parents'  past,  all  my  inherited  instincts  were 
against  it.  I  simply  could  not  fraternize  with  them. 
I  kept  on  trying  something  different,  thinking  it  was 
that  that  was  amiss:  a  different  sort  of  work,  a  dif- 
ferent occupation.  Nothing  made  any  difference. 
I  remained  a  harmless,  inquisitive  amateur;  and  just 
that  settled  conviction,  that  I  could  leave  off  at  any 
time  if  I  wished,  was  the  reason  why  my  life  never 
became  the  profoundly  serious  thing  which  I  would 
have  had  it.  It  remained  amateurish.  It  became 
almost  a  mockery  of  the  life  of  my  mates.  I  was 
free  and  they  were  slaves.  I  was  vigorous  and  they 
were  worked  to  death.  To  me,'  after  my  brain- 
work,  that  manual  and  muscular  labour  came  as  a 
tonic.  If  I  was  overtired,  I  rested,  left  my  jobr 
looked  for  something  else  after  a  few  weeks.  The 
others  would  be  sweated,  right  up  to  their  old  age, 
till  they  had  yielded  the  last  ounce  of  their  working- 
power.  I  should  work  just  as  long  as  I  took  pleasure 
in  it.  I  looked  healthy  and  well,  even  though  my 
face  and  hands  became  rough.  I  ate  in  proportion 


THE  LATER  LIFE  183 

to  the  hardness  of  my  work.  And  I  thought :  if  they 
could  all  eat  as  I  do,  it  would  be  all  right.  Then  I 
felt  ashamed  of  myself,  distributed  all  my  money, 
secretly,  among  the  poor  and  lived  solely  on  my 
wages  .  .  .  until  I  fell  ill  ...  and  cured  myself 
with  my  money.  It  became  absurd.  And  never 
more  so  than  when  I,  habitually  well-fed,  looked 
down  upon  my  mates  because  their  unalterable  ideal 
appeared  to  be  ...  to  eat  beef  every  day!  Do 
they  long  for  nothing  better  and  higher  and  nobler, 
I  thought,  than  to  eat  beef?  It  was  easy  for  me  to 
think  like  that  and  look  down  on  them,  I  who  ate  beef 
whenever  I  wanted  to !  Well-fed,  even  though 
tired  with  my  work,  I  could  think  of  nobler  things 
than  beef.  And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet,  though  I  felt  all 
this  at  the  time,  I  still  continued  to  despise  them  for 
their  base  ideal.  That  was  because  of  my  blood  and 
my  birth,  but  especially  because  of  my  superior  train- 
ing and  education.  And  then  I  became  very  de- 
spondent and  thought, '  I  shall  never  feel  myself  their 
brother;  I  shall  remain  a  gentleman,  a  "  toff;  "  it  is 
not  my  fault:  it  is  the  fault  of  everything,  of  all  my 
past  life.'  .  .  .  Then,  suddenly,  without  any  trans- 
ition, I  went  back  to  Europe.  I  have  lectured  here 
...  on  Peace.  In  a  year's  time,  perhaps,  I  shall 
be  lecturing  on  War.  I  am  still  seeking.  I  no 
longer  know  anything.  Properly  speaking,  I  never 
did  know  anything.  I  seek  and  seek  .  .  .  But  why 
have  I  talked  to  you  at  such  length  about  myself?  I 


1 84  THE  LATER  LIFE 

am  ashamed  of  myself,  I  am  ashamed.  Perhaps  I 
have  no  right  to  go  on  seeking.  A  man  seeks  when 
he  is  young,  does  he  not?  When  he  has  come  to  my 
age,  which  is  the  same  as  yours,  he  ought  to  have 
found  and  he  has  no  right  to  go  on  seeking.  And, 
if  he  hasn't  found,  then  he  looks  back  upon  his  life 
as  one  colossal  failure,  as  one  huge  mistake  —  mis- 
take upon  mistake  —  and  then  things  become  hope- 
less, hopeless,  hopeless  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  her  own  life,  her  small  feminine 
life  —  the  life  of  a  small  soul  that  had  not  thought 
and  had  not  felt,  that  was  only  just  beginning  to  feel 
and  only  just  beginning  at  rare  intervals  to  think  — 
and  she  saw  her  own  small  life  also  wasting  the 
years  in  mistake  upon  mistake. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  filled  with  longing,  "  to 
have  found  what  one  might  have  gone  on  seeking  for 
years !  To  have  found,  when  young,  happiness  .  .  . 
for  one's  self  .  .  .  and  for  others!  Oh,  to  be 
young,  to  be  once  more  young!  .  .  .  And  then  to 
seek  .  .  .  and  then  to  find  when  young  .  .  .  and  to 
meet  when  young  .  .  .  and  to  be  happy  when  young 
and  to  make  others  —  everybody !  —  happy !  .  .  . 
To  be  young,  oh,  to  be  young !  " 

"  But  you  are  not  old,"  she  said.  "  You  are  in 
the  prime  of  life." 

"  I  hate  that  phrase,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  The 
prime  of  life  occurs  at  my  age  in  people  who  do  not 


THE  LATER  LIFE  185 

seek,  but  who  have  quietly  travelled  a  definite,  known 
path.  Those  are  the  people  who,  when  they  are  my 
age,  are  in  the  prime  of  life.  I  am  not:  I  have 
sought;  I  have  never  found.  I  now  feel  all  the  sad- 
ness of  my  wasted  efforts;  I  now  feel  .  .  .  old.  I 
feel  old.  What  more  can  I  do  now?  Think  a  little 
more;  try  to  keep  abreast  of  modern  thought  and 
modern  conditions;  seek  a  little,  like  a  blind  man. 
And,"  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  I  have  even  lost  that 
right:  the  right  to  seek.  You  seek  only  when  you 
are  very  young,  or  else  it  becomes  absurd." 

"  You  are  echoing  me,"  she  said,  in  gentle  re- 
proach. 

"  But  you  were  right,  you  were  right.  It  is  so. 
There  is  nothing  left,  at  our  age;  not  even  our 
memories  .  .  ." 

"  Our  memories,"  she  murmured,  very  softly. 

"  The  memories  of  our  childhood  .  .  ." 

"  Of  our  childhood,"  she  repeated. 

"  Not  even  that." 

"  Not  even  that,"  she  repeated,  as  though  hypno- 
tized. 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  left  ...  for  us  ..  ." 

The  door  opened  suddenly:  they  started. 

"  Mamma,  are  you  there?  " 

It  was  Addie. 

"  Yes,  my  boy  .  .  ." 

"  I  can't  see  you.     It  is  quite  dark." 

"  And  here  is  Mr.  Brauws." 


1 86  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  I  can  see  nothing  and  nobody.  May  I  light  one 
of  the  lamps?  " 

"  Yes,  do." 

He  bustled  through  the  room,  hunted  for  matches, 
lit  a  lamp  in  the  corner: 

"  That's  it.     Now  at  least  I  can  see  you." 

He  came  nearer:  a  young,  handsome,  bright  boy, 
with  his  good-looking,  healthy  face  and  his  serious, 
blue  eyes;  broad  and  strong,  shedding  a  note  of  joy 
in  the  melancholy  room,  which  lit  up  softly  with  the 
glow  of  its  one  lamp,  behind  Constance.  She  smiled 
at  him,  drew  him  down  beside  her,  put  her  arms 
round  him  while  he  kissed  her: 

"He  is  left!"  she  said,  softly,  with  a  glance  at 
Brauws,  referring  to  the  last  words  which  he  had 
spoken. 

He  understood : 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  —  and  his  gloom  seemed  sud- 
denly to  brighten  into  a  sort  of  rueful  gladness,  a 
yearning  hope  that  all  was  not  yet  lost,  that  his 
dreams  might  be  realized  not  by  myself,  but  by  an- 
other, by  Addie  —  and  he  repeated  her  own,  radiant 
words,  "  Yes,  yes,  he  is  left !  " 

The  boy  did  not  understand,  looked  at  them  both 
by  turns  and  smiled  enquiringly,  receiving  only  their 
smiles  in  answer  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

FOR  a  long  time,  Constance  had  not  been  to  Mamma 
van  Lowe's  Sunday-evenings;  and  at  first  Mamma 
had  not  insisted.  Now,  however,  one  afternoon, 
she  said,  gently: 

"  Are  you  never  coming  again  on  a  Sunday,  Con- 
stance? " 

She  saw  that  her  mother  had  suddenly  become  very 
nervous  and  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  not  made 
an  effort  and  overcome  her  reluctance  to  attend  the 
family-gatherings  after  that  terrible  evening. 

"  Yes,  Mamma,"  she  said,  without  hesitation,  "  I 
will  come.  This  is  Saturday:  I  will  come  to-mor- 
row." 

The  old  woman  leant  back  wearily  in  her  chair, 
nodded  her  head  up  and  down,  as  though  she  knew 
all  sorts  of  sad  things : 

"  It  is  so  sad  .  .  .  about  Van  Naghel,"  she  said. 
"  Bertha  is  going  through  a  lot  of  trouble." 

It  seemed  as  if  Mamma  wished  to  talk  about  it; 
but  Constance,  with  an  affected  indifference  to  her 
relations'  affairs,  asked  no  questions. 

The  next  evening,  Constance  and  Addle  were 
ready  to  start  for  the  Alexanderstraat. 

"  Aren't  you  coming? "  she  asked  Van  der 
Welcke. 

187 


1 88  THE  LATER  LIFE 

He  hesitated.  He  would  rather  not  go,  feeling 
unfriendly  towards  the  whole  family,  but  he  would 
have  liked  to  see  Marianne.  Still  he  said: 

11  No,  I  think  not." 

He  was  afraid  that  his  refusal  would  cause  a  scene ; 
but  latterly,  even  though  anger  welled  up  inside  her, 
she  had  shown  a  forbearance  which  surprised  him; 
and  she  merely  said: 

"  Mamma  would  like  us  all  to  come  again." 

He  was  really  fond  of  the  old  lady:  she  had  al- 
ways been  kind  to  him. 

"  Who  will  be  there?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  all  of  them !  "  she  said.     "  As  usual." 

"  Surely  not  Bertha  .  .  .  and  her  children  ...  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  said,  gently,  feeling  that  he  was 
sounding  her  to  see  if  Marianne  would  be  there. 
"  Why  shouldn't  they  go,  though  they  are  in  mourn- 
ing? It's  not  a  party:  there  will  be  no  one  but  the 
family." 

"  Perhaps  I'll  come  on  later,"  he  said,  still  hesi- 
tating. 

She  did  not  insist,  went  off  on  foot  with  Addle.  It 
was  curious,  but  now,  whenever  she  went  to  her 
mother's  house,  nice  though  her  mother  always  was 
to  her,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  going  there  as  a 
stranger,  not  as  a  daughter.  It  was  because  of  the 
others  that  she  felt  like  a  stranger,  because  of  Bertha, 
Adolphine,  Karel,  Cateau  and  Dorine.  Gerrit  and 
Paul  were  the  only  ones  whom  she  still  looked  upon 


THE  LATER  LIFE  189 

as  brothers;  and  she  was  very  fond  of  Adeline. 

This  evening  again,  as  she  entered  the  room,  she 
felt  like  that,  like  a  stranger.  The  old  aunts  were 
sitting  in  their  usual  places,  doing  their  crochet-work 
mechanically.  Mamma,  as  Constance  knew,  had 
had  an  angry  scene  with  the  two  old  things,  to  explain 
to  them  that  they  mustn't  talk  scandal  and,  above  all, 
that  they  mustn't  do  so  out  loud,  a  scene  which  had 
thoroughly  upset  Mamma  herself  and  which  the  old 
aunts  had  not  even  seemed  to  understand,  for  they 
merely  nodded  a  vague  consent,  nodded  yes,  yes,  no 
doubt  Marie  was  right.  Yet  Constance  suspected 
that  Auntie  Rine  had  understood  at  least  something 
of  it,  for  she  was  now  looking  at  Constance  askance, 
with  a  frightened  look.  Constance  could  not  bring 
herself  to  speak  to  the  old  aunts:  she  walked  past 
them;  and  Auntie  Tine  whispered  to  Auntie  Rine: 

"  There  she  is  again !  " 

"  Who?  "  screamed  Auntie  Rine,  aloud. 

But  Auntie  Tine  dared  not  whisper  anything 
more,  because  of  their  sister  Marie,  who  had  flown 
into  such  a  passion;  and  she  pinched  Auntie  Rine's 
withered  hand,  whereupon  Auntie  Rine  glared  at  her 
angrily.  Then  they  cackled  together  for  a  moment, 
bad-temperedly.  The  three  young  Saetzemas,  play- 
ing their  cards  in  a  corner  of  the  conservatory,  sat 
bursting  with  laughter  at  the  bickering  of  the  two 
old  aunts. 

Constance  sat  down  quietly  by  Mamma.     And  she 


1 90  THE  LATER  LIFE 

felt,  now  that  Addie  spoke  to  Marietje  —  Adol- 
phine's  Marietje  —  but  did  not  go  to  the  boys  in  the 
conservatory,  that  there  was  no  harmony  among 
them  all  and  that  they  only  met  for  the  sake  of 
Mamma,  of  Grandmamma.  Poor  Mamma !  And 
yet  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  it,  was  glad  that  the 
children  and  grandchildren  came  to  her  Sundays,  to 
her  "  family-group." 

Adolphine  and  Cateau  sat  talking  in  a  corner;  and 
Constance  caught  what  they  said : 

"  So  Ber-tha  is  not  .  .  .  keep-ing  on  the  house?  " 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed !  They  have  nothing 
but  debts." 

"  Is  it  their  bro-ther-in-law  who  is  see-ing  to  things 
and  ad-min-istering  the  es-tate?  " 

"  Yes,  the  commissary  in  Overijssel."  * 

"  So  they  are  not  well  off  " 

"  No,  they  haven't  a  farthing." 

4  Yes,  as  I  al-ways  used  to  say  to  Ka-rel,  they  al- 
ways lived  on  much  too  large  a  scale" 

'  They  squandered  all  they  had." 

"  Well,  that's  not  very  pleas-ant  for  the  chil- 
dren!" 

"  No.  And  there's  Emilie,  who  wants  a  divorce. 
But  don't  mention  that  to  Mamma:  she  doesn't 
know  about  it." 

1  The  "  Queen's  Commissary "  of  a  Dutch  province  has  no 
counterpart  in  England  except,  perhaps,  the  lord  lieutenant  of  a 
county.  His  functions,  however,  correspond  more  nearly  with 
those  of  a  French  prefect. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  191 

"  Ve-ry  well  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  most  unfor-tunate. 
Your  Floor-tje,  Phine,  is  bet-ter  off  than  that  with 
Dij-kerhof." 

"  At  least,  they're  not  thinking  of  getting  di- 
vorced. I  always  look  upon  a  divorce  as  a  scandal. 
We've  one  divorce  in  the  family  as  it  is;  and  I  con- 
sider that  one  too  many." 

Constance  turned  pale  and  felt  that  Adolphine 
was  speaking  loud  on  purpose,  though  it  was  be- 
hind her  back  .  .  .  Dear  Mamma  noticed  nothing! 
.  .  .  She  had  b'een  much  upset  on  that  one  Sunday, 
that  terrible  evening,  but  had  not  really  understood 
the  truth:  the  terrible  thing  to  her  was  merely  that 
the  old  sisters  had  talked  so  loud  and  so  spitefully 
about  her  poor  Constance,  like  the  cross-grained, 
spiteful  old  women  that  they  were;  but  what  hap- 
pened besides  she  had  really  never  quite  known  .  .  . 
And  this,  now  that  Constance  was  gradually  draw- 
ing farther  away  from  her  brothers  and  sisters,  sud- 
denly struck  her  as  rather  fine.  Whatever  hap- 
pened, they  kept  Mamma  out  of  it  as  far  as  they 
could,  in  a  general  filial  affection  for  Mamma,  in  a 
filial  conspiracy  to  leave  Mamma  her  happiness  and 
her  illusion  about  the  family;  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  brothers  and  sisters  also  impressed  this  on  their 
children;  it  appeared  that  Adolphine  even  taught  it 
to  her  loutish  boys,  for,  to  her  sudden  surprise,  she 
saw  Chris  and  Piet  go  up  to  Addie  and  ask  him  to 
join  in  their  game.  Addie  refused,  coldly;  and  now 


1 92  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Constance  was  almost  ashamed  that  she  herself  had 
not  pointed  out  to  Addie  that  Grandmamma  must 
always  be  spared  and  left  in  her  fond  illusion  that 
all  was  harmony.  But  fortunately  Addie  of  his  own 
accord  always  knew  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do ; 
for,  when  Adolphine's  Marietje  also  came  up  with  a 
smile  and  asked  him  to  come  and  play  cards  in  the 
conservatory,  he  went  with  her  at  once.  She  smiled 
because  of  it  all :  no,  there  was  no  mutual  sympathy, 
but  there  was  a  general  affection  for  Mamma.  A 
general  affection,  for  Mamma,  was  something  rather 
touching  after  all;  and  really  she  had  never  before 
seen  it  in  that  light,  as  something  fine,  that  strong 
and  really  unanimous  feeling  among  all  those  differ- 
ent members  of  a  family  whose  interests  and  inclina- 
tions in  the  natural  course  of  things  were  divided. 
Yes,  now  that  she  was  standing  farther  away  from 
her  brothers  and  sisters,  she  saw  for  the  first  time 
this  one  feature  which  was  good  in  them.  Yes,  it 
was  really  something  very  good,  something  lovable ; 
and  even  Adolphine  had  it  ...  It  was  as  though 
a  softer  mood  came  over  Constance,  no  longer  one 
of  criticism  and  resentment,  but  rather  of  sympathy 
and  understanding,  in  which  bitterness  had  given 
place  to  kindliness;  and  in  that  softer  mood  there 
was  still  indeed  sadness,  but  no  anger,  as  if  every- 
thing could  not  well  be  other  than  it  was,  in  their 
circle  of  small  people,  of  very  small  people,  whose 
eyes  saw  only  a  little  way  beyond  themselves,  whose 


THE  LATER  LIFE  193 

hearts  were  sensitive  only  a  little  way  beyond  them- 
selves, not  farther  than  the  narrow  circle  of  their 
children  and  perhaps  their  children's  children  .  .  . 
She  did  not  know  why,  but,  in  the  vague  sadness  of 
this  new,  softer  mood,  she  thought  of  Brauws. 
And,  though  not  able  at  once  to  explain  why,  she 
connected  her  thought  of  him  with  this  kindlier  feel- 
ing of  hers,  this  deeper,  truer  vision  of  things  around 
her.  And,  as  though  new,  far-stretching  vistas 
opened  up  before  her,  she  suddenly  seemed  to  be  con- 
templating life,  that  life  which  she  had  never  yet 
contemplated.  A  new,  distant  horizon  lay  open  be- 
fore her,  a  distant  circle,  a  wide  circle  round  the  nar- 
row little  circle  past  which  the  eyes  of  her  soul  had 
never  yet  been  able  to  gaze  ...  It  was  strange  to 
her,  this  feeling,  here  in  this  room,  in  this  family- 
circle.  It  was  as  though  she  suddenly  saw  all  her 
relations  —  the  Ruyvenaers  had  now  arrived  as  well 
—  sitting  and  talking  in  that  room,  all  her  relations 
and  herself  also,  as  very  small  people,  who  sat  and 
talked,  who  moved  and  lived  and  thought  in  a  very 
narrow  little  circle  of  self-interest,  while  outside  that 
circle  the  horizon  extended  ever  wider  and  wider, 
like  a  vision  of  great  cloudy  skies,  under  which  towns 
rose  sharply,  seas  billowed,  bright  lightning  glanced. 
It  all  shot  through  her  and  in  front  of  her  very 
swiftly:  two  or  three  little  revealing  flashes,  no 
more;  swift  revelations,  which  flashed  out  and  then 
darkened  again.  But,  swiftly  though  those  revela- 


i94  THE  LATER  LIFE 

tions  had  flashed,  after  that  brightness  the  room  re- 
mained small,  those  people  remained  small,  she  her- 
self remained  small  .  .  . 

She  herself  had  never  lived:  oh,  she  had  so  often 
suspected  it !  But  those  other  people :  had  they  also 
never,  never  lived?  Mamma,  in  the  narrow  circle 
of  her  children's  and  grandchildren's  affection; 
Uncle  and  Aunt,  in  their  interests  as  sugar-planters; 
Karel  and  Cateau,  in  their  narrow,  respectable,  com- 
placent comfort;  Adolphine,  in  her  miserable  strug- 
gle for  social  importance;  and  the  others,  Gerrit, 
Dorine,  Ernst,  Paul:  had  they  ever,  ever  lived? 
Her  husband:  had  he  ever  lived?  Or  was  it  all  just 
a  mere  existence,  as  she  herself  had  existed;  a  vege- 
tation rooted  in  little  thoughts  and  habits,  in  little 
opinions  and  prejudices,  in  little  religions  or  philoso- 
phies; and  feeling  pleasant  and  comfortable  therein 
and  looking  down  upon  and  condemning  others  and 
considering  one's  self  fairly  good  and  fairly  high- 
minded,  not  so  bad  as  others  and  at  least  far  more 
sensible  in  one's  opinions  and  beliefs  than  most  of 
one's  neighbours?  .  .  .  Oh,  people  like  themselves; 
people  in  their  "  set,"  in  other  sets,  with  their  several 
variations  of  birth,  religion,  position,  money;  decent 
people,  whom  Brauws  sometimes  called  "  the 
bourgeois:  "  had  they  ever  lived,  ever  looked  out  be- 
yond the  very  narrow  circle  which  their  dogmas  drew 
around  them?  What  a  small  and  insignificant 
merry-go-round  it  was!  And  what  was  the  ob- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  195 

ject  of  whirling  among  one  another  and  round  one 
another  like  that?  ...  It  suddenly  appeared  to  her 
that,  of  all  these  people  who  belonged  to  her  and  of 
all  the  others,  the  acquaintances,  whom  with  a  swift 
mental  effort  she  grouped  around  them,  there  was 
not  one  who  could  send  a  single  thought  shining  out 
far  and  wide,  towards  the  wide  horizons  yonder, 
without  thinking  of  himself,  his  wife  and  his  children 
and  clinging  to  his  prejudices  about  money,  position, 
religion  and  birth  ...  As  regards  money,  it  was 
almost  a  distinction  among  all  of  them  not  to  have 
any  and  then  to  live  as  if  they  had.  Position  was 
what  they  strove  for;  and  those  who  did  not  strive 
for  it,  such  as  Paul  and  Ernst,  were  criticized  for 
their  weakness.  Religion  was,  with  those  other  peo- 
ple, the  mere  acquaintances,  not  belonging  to  their 
circle,  sometimes  a  matter  of  decency  or  of  political 
interest;  but,  in  their  set,  with  its  East-Indian  leaven, 
it  was  ignored,  quietly  and  calmly,  never  thought 
about  or  talked  about,  save  that  the  children  were 
just  confirmed,  quickly,  as  they  might  be  given  a 
dancing-  or  music-lesson.  Birth,  birth,  that  was 
everything;  and  even  then  there  was  that  superior 
contempt  for  new  titles  of  nobility,  that  respect  only 
for  old  titles  and  a  tendency  to  think  them- 
selves very  grand,  even  though  they  were  not  titled, 
as  members  of  a  patrician  Dutch-Indian  family 
which,  in  addition  to  its  original  importance,  had 
also  absorbed  the  importance  attaching  to  the  high- 


196  THE  LATER  LIFE 

est  official  positions  in  Java  .  .  .  And  over  it  all  lay 
the  soft  smile  of  indulgent  pity  and  contempt  for 
any  who  thought  differently  from  themselves.  It 
formed  the  basis  of  all  their  opinions,  however 
greatly  those  opinions  might  vary  according  to  their 
personal  interests  and  views:  compassion  and  con- 
tempt for  people  who  had  no  money  and  lived 
economically;  for  those  who  did  not  aim  at  an  ex- 
alted position;  for  those,  whether  Catholics  or  anti- 
revolutionaries  —  they  themselves  were  all  moder- 
ate liberals,  with  special  emphasis  on  the  "  moder- 
ate " —  who  cherished  an  enthusiasm  for  religion; 
for  those  who  were  not  of  such  patrician  birth  as 
themselves.  And  so  on,  with  certain  variations  in 
these  opinions  ...  It  was  as  though  Constance 
noticed  the  merry-go-round  for  the  first  time,  whirl- 
ing in  that  little  circle.  It  was  as  though  she  saw  it 
in  the  past,  saw  it  whirling  in  their  drawing-rooms, 
when  her  father  was  still  alive,  then  especially.  She 
saw  it  suddenly,  as  a  child,  after  it  is  grown  up,  sees 
its  parents  and  their  house,  their  former  life,  in 
which  it  was  a  child,  in  which  it  grew  up.  She  saw 
it  now  like  that  at  her  mother's,  only  less  vividly,  be- 
cause of  the  informality  of  that  family-gathering. 
She  saw  it  like  that,  dimly,  in  all,  in  every  one  of 
them,  more  or  less.  But  she  also  saw  the  respect, 
the  love  for  Mamma,  the  wish  to  leave  her  in  the 
illusion  which  that  love  gave  her. 

She  had  never  seen  it  like  that  before.     She  her- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  197 

self  was  just  the  same  as  the  others.  And  she 
thought  herself  and  all  of  them  small,  so  small  that 
she  said  to  herself: 

"  Do  we  all  of  us  live  for  so  very  little,  when 
there  is  so  very  much  beyond,  stretching  far  and 
wide,  under  the  cloudy  skies  of  that  immense  hori- 
zon? Do  we  never  stop  outside  this  little  circle  in 
which  we  all,  with  our  superior  smile  —  because  we 
are  so  distinguished  and  enlightened  —  spin  round 
one  another  and  ourselves,  like  humming-tops,  like 
everlasting  humming-tops?  " 

And  again  Brauws'  figure  rose  before  her  eyes. 
Oh,  she  now  for  the  first  time  understood  what  he 
had  said,  on  that  first  evening  when  she  saw  and 
heard  him,  about  Peace !  . . .  Peace !  The  pure,  im- 
maculate ideal  suddenly  streamed  before  her  like  a 
silver  banner,  fluttered  in  the  wide  cloudy  skies! 
Oh,  she  now  for  the  first  time  understood  .  .  .  why 
he  sought.  He  had  wanted  to  seek  .  .  .  life !  He 
had  sought  .  .  .  and  he  had  not  found.  But, 
while  seeking,  he  had  lived:  he  still  lived!  His 
breath  came  and  went,  his  pulses  throbbed,  his  chest 
heaved  .  .  .  even  though  his  sadness,  because  he 
had  never  "  found,"  bedimmed  his  energies.  But 
she  and  all  of  them  did  not  live !  They  did  not  live, 
they  had  never  lived.  They  were  born,  people  of 
distinction,  with  all  their  little  cynicisms  about  money 
and  religion,  with  all  their  fondness  for  birth  and  po- 
sition; and  they  continued  to  spin  round  like  that,  to 


198  THE  LATER  LIFE 

spin  like  humming-tops:  moderate  liberals.  That 
they  all  tolerated  her  again,  in  the  little  circle,  was 
that  not  all  part  of  their  moderate  liberal  attitude? 
Oh,  to  live,  to  live  really,  to  live  as  he  had  lived,  to 
live  ...  to  live  with  him! 

She  was  now  startled  at  herself.  She  was  in  a 
room  full  of  people  and  she  sat  in  silence  next  to 
her  mother.  Dear  Mamma!  .  .  .  And  she  was 
weary  of  her  own  thinking,  for  swift  as  lightning  it 
all  flashed  through  her,  that  revelation  of  her 
thoughts,  without  sentences,  without  images,  without 
words.  It  just  flashed;  and  that  was  all.  But  that 
flashing  made  her  feel  weary,  enervated,  almost 
breathless  in  the  room,  which  she  found  close  .  .  . 
And  the  very  last  of  her  thoughts,  which  had  just 
for  a  moment  appeared  before  her  —  sentence, 
image  and  word  —  had  startled  her.  She  had  to 
confess  it  to  herself:  she  loved,  she  loved  him.  But 
she  inwardly  pronounced  that  love  —  perhaps  with 
the  little  cynical  laugh  which  she  had  observed  in  her 
own  people  —  she  pronounced  that  love  to  be  ab- 
surd, because  so  many  silent,  dead  years  lay  heaped 
up  there,  because  she  was  old,  quite  old.  To  wish 
to  live  at  this  time  of  day  was  absurd.  To  wish  to 
dream  at  this  stage  was  absurd.  No,  after  so  many 
years  had  been  wasted  on  that  meaningless  existence, 
then  she,  an  old  woman  now,  must  not  hope  to  live 
again  when  it  dawned  too  late,  that  life  of  thinking 
and  feeling,  that  life  from  which  might  have  sprung 


THE  LATER  LIFE  199 

a  life  of  doing  and  loving,  of  boundless  love,  of  love 
for  everybody  and  everything  .  .  .  No,  after  so 
many  years  had  been  spent  in  living  the  life  of  a 
plant,  until  the  plant  became  yellow  and  sere,  then 
inevitably,  inexorably  extinction,  slow  extinction,  was 
the  only  hope  that  remained  .  .  . 

The  absurdity,  of  being  so  old  —  forty-three  — 
and  feeling  like  that!  .  .  .  Never,  she  swore, 
would  she  allow  anybody  to  perceive  that  absurd- 
ity. She  knew  quite  well  that  it  was  not  really  ab- 
surd, that  its  absurdity  existed  only  in  the  narrow 
little  circle  of  little  prejudices  and  little  dogmas. 
But  she  also  knew  that  she,  like  all  of  them,  was 
small,  that  she  herself  was  full  of  prejudice;  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  rise,  could  never  rise  above 
what  she  considered  absurd,  what  she  had  been 
taught,  from  a  child,  in  her  little  circle,  to  look  upon 
as  absurd! 

No,  now  that  she  was  old,  there  was  nothing  for 
her  but  to  turn  her  eyes  from  the  radiant  vision 
and,  calmly,  to  grow  still  older  ...  to  go  towards 
that  slow  extinction  which  perhaps  would  still  drag 
on  for  many  long  and  empty  years:  the  years  of  a 
woman  of  her  age  ...  in  their  set  ... 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  door  opened  and  Bertha,  Louise  and  Marianne 
entered.  And  they  stepped  so  suddenly  right  across 
Constance'  thoughts  that  she  was  startled  at  their  ap- 
pearance: mother  and  daughters  in  deep  mourning. 
She  had  not  seen  Bertha  except  on  that  first  hurried 
visit  immediately  after  Van  Naghel's  death  and  on 
the  day  of  the  funeral,  six  weeks  ago ;  and  she  knew 
very  little  of  what  was  happening;  she  had  seen 
Marianne  only  once.  And  now  that  they  both 
stepped  right  across  her  thoughts,  into  that  narrow 
circle  —  which  she  condemned,  though  she  herself 
was  unable  to  move  out  of  it  —  a  great  compassion 
suddenly  surged  through  her,  like  a  torrent.  Bertha 
looked  very  pale,  tired,  wasted,  grown  all  at  once 
into  an  old  woman,  hopeless  and  resigned,  as  though 
broken  under  much  silent  sorrow.  Louise's  face 
wore  a  rather  more  tranquil  expression;  but  Mari- 
anne beside  her,  delicate  and  white,  still  more 
delicate  and  white  in  her  black  dress,  also  diffused 
an  almost  tearful  melancholy.  Mamma  rose  and 
went  towards  them.  It  was  the  first  time  since  her 
husband's  death  that  Bertha  had  come  to  Mamma's 
Sunday-evening;  and  the  gesture  with  which  the  old 
woman  rose,  approached  her  daughter,  embraced  her 
and  led  her  to  the  sofa  where  she  had  been  sitting 

200 


THE  LATER  LIFE  201 

showed  the  same  open-armed  and  open-hearted 
motherly  affection  with  which,  as  Constance  remem- 
bered, Mamma  had  received  her,  Constance,  at  the 
door,  on  the  landing,  on  the  first  evening  of  her  own 
return.  Dear  Mamma ! 

It  touched  her  so  much  that  she  herself  rose,  went 
to  Bertha,  kissed  her  tenderly,  kissed  Louise  and 
Marianne.  Her  voice,  for  the  first  time  for  many 
a  day,  had  a  sisterly  note  in  it  that  took  Bertha  by 
surprise.  She  pressed  Constance'  hand  and,  after 
the  others  had  spoken  to  her,  sat  down  quietly  near 
Mamma,  Aunt  Lot  and  Constance.  How  pale,  de- 
jected and  resigned  she  was!  She  seemed  to  be 
looking  helplessly  around  her,  to  be  looking  for  some 
one  to  assist  her,  to  be  wishing  to  say  something,  to 
somebody,  that  would  have  relieved  her.  She 
sighed: 

"  I  have  come,  Mamma  .  .  .  but  I  cannot  stay 
long,"  she  said.  "  I  am  very  tired.  There  are  all 
those  business  matters;  and,  though  Adolph  is  very 
kind  and  sympathetic  and  is  a  great  help,  it  is  ter- 
ribly complicated  and  I  sometimes  feel  half-dead 
with  it  all.  .  .  .  It's  lucky  that  I  have  Otto  and 
Frances;  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
them  .  .  .  You  know  we  are  going  to  live  in  the 
country?  ..." 

"  You  were  thinking  about  it  the  other  day,  dear," 
said  Mamma,  anxiously,  "  but  it  wasn't  decided  yet 
.  .  .  Bertha,  must  I  lose  you?  " 


202  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Dear  Mamma,  it's  better  in  the  country. 
Adolph  wanted  us  to  look  round  in  Overijssel,  but 
I  would  rather  be  at  Baarn,  for  instance:  it's  nearer 
to  the  Hague  and  you  .  .  ." 

"Why,  Baarn,  my  child?  There's  nobody  there 
but  Amsterdam  people,  business-people :  such  a  very 
different  set  from  ours !  .  .  ." 

lt  We  sha'n't  expect  to  make  friends,  Mamma, 
at  first.  I  shall  be  alone  with  the  girls.  Otto  and 
Frances  have  found  a  little  house  at  the  Hague: 
it's  lucky  that  Otto  is  provided  for  at  the  Foreign 
Office.  The  minister  spoke  very  nicely  about  him 
the  other  day  .  .  .  Frans  and  Henri  must  finish  their 
university-course  quickly  now,"  she  said,  in  a  hesitat- 
ing tone.  "  Karel  is  going  to  a  boarding-school,  for 
I  can't  manage  him.  And  Marietje  too:  she  was 
going  soon,  in  any  case.  So  there  will  be  just  the 
three  of  us:  Louise,  Marianne  and  I  ...  Things 
have  changed  very  much,  all  at  once,  Aunt  Lot.  We 
want  to  live  quietly.  In  the  first  place,  we  shall  just 
have  to  live  quietly;  and  the  girls  are  quite  con- 
tent to  do  so  .  .  ." 

It  again  seemed  to  Constance  as  if  Bertha  were 
looking  for  somebody  in  the  room,  were  hushing 
something  up.  Constance  had  Emilie's  name  on  her 
lips,  but  she  did  not  like  to  ask.  Mamma  knew 
nothing  more  than  that  Emilie  and  Van  Raven  some- 
times had  differences. 

"  I  shall  have  a  lot  of  trouble  and  worry  before 


THE  LATER  LIFE  203 

me,"  said  Bertha.  "  But,  when  it  is  all  settled  and 
we  have  our  little  villa  .  .  ." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  stared  before  her 
with  dim  eyes. 

Constance  took  her  hand  compassionately,  held  it 
tight.  It  looked  as  though  Bertha,  after  that  busy 
life  which  had  suddenly  snapped  with  Van  Naghel's 
death,  an  hour  after  their  last  dinner-party,  no 
longer  knew  what  to  do  or  say,  felt  derelict  and 
helpless  .  .  . 

Though  there  was  so  much  business  to  attend  to, 
she  seemed  stunned  all  at  once,  in  the  grip  of  a 
strange  lethargy,  as  though  everything  was  now 
finished,  as  though  there  was  nothing  left  now  that 
there  would  soon  be  no  more  visits  to  pay,  no  recep- 
tions to  hold,  no  dinners  to  give;  now  that  Van 
Naghel  no  longer  came  home  from  the  Chamber, 
tired  and  irritable  from  an  afternoon's  heckling;  now 
that  there  would  be  no  more  calculating  how  they 
could  manage  to  spend  a  thousand  guilders  less  a 
month;  now  that  she  would  simply  have  to  live 
quietly  on  what  she  and  the  girls  possessed.  And 
it  seemed  as  if  she  no  longer  knew  how  or  why  she 
should  go  on  living,  now  that  she  would  no  longer 
have  to  give  her  dinners  and  pay  her  visits  .  .  .  for 
her  children,  particularly  her  girls.  Louise  and 
Marianne  had  said  to  her  so  calmly  that  they  wanted 
very  soon  to  begin  living  quietly  that  Bertha  now 
began  to  wonder: 


204  THE  LATER  LIFE 

;t  Why  did  I  always  make  so  much  fuss,  if  the  girls 
cared  for  it  so  little?  Why  did  I  go  on  till  I  was 
old  and  worn  out?  " 

It  was  true,  that  had  been  Van  Naghel's  ambition: 
he  had  wanted  to  see  his  house  a  political  salon. 
What  he  wished  had  happened.  Now  it  was  all 
over.  Now  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  live 
quietly,  in  the  little  villa  at  Baarn;  to  make  no  debts; 
to  let  the  boys  finish  their  college-course  as  quickly 
as  possible;  and  then  to  educate  Karel  and  Marietje 
and  let  theirs  be  a  different  life  from  the  others' :  how 
she  did  not  know  .  .  . 

Bertha  remained  sitting  wearily,  staring  vaguely 
before  her,  half-listening  to  the  sympathetic  words, 
uttered  with  an  emphatic  Indian  accent,  of  Aunt  Lot, 
who  kept  saying: 

"Kassian!  !.-/»» 

But  suddenly  an  access  of  nervousness  seemed  to 
startle  her  out  of  her  depression.  She  looked  round 
again,  as  though  seeking  for  somebody  .  .  .  some- 
body to  say  something  to.  Her  glance  fastened 
for  a  moment  on  Aunt  Lot  and  then  on  Con- 
stance. Suddenly  she  rose,  with  a  little  laugh,  as 
though  she  wanted  to  speak  to  Louise,  farther  away. 
But  the  nervous  pressure  of  her  hand  seemed  to  be 
urging  Constance  also  to  get  up,  to  go  with  her, 
somewhere,  anywhere  .  .  .  They  went  through  the 
other  drawing-room,  past  the  card-table  at  which 

1  Poor   thing ! 


THE  LATER  LIFE  205 

Uncle,  Adolphine,  Karel  and  Dotje  were  sitting,  past 
the  other  with  Cateau,  Van  Saetzema,  Dijkerhof  and 
Pop;  and  the  conversation  at  both  tables  at  once 
flagged;  the  cards  fell  hurriedly  one  after  the  other 
.  .  .  They  were  talking  about  Bertha,  thought  Con- 
stance, as  Bertha  drew  her  gently  to  the  little  bou- 
doir, the  room  where  the  wine  and  cakes  were  set  out, 
where  Papa  van  Lowe's  portrait  hung,  stern  and  inex- 
orable; the  little  room  where  they  all  of  them  went 
when  they  had  anything  confidential  to  say  to  one 
another,  when  there  was  a  scene,  or  a  difference,  or  a 
private  discussion.  And  Constance  at  once  remem- 
bered how,  five  months  ago,  she  had  appealed  to 
Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  in  this  very  room ;  how  they 
had  refused  to  receive  her  "  officially "  at  their 
house;  how  Van  der  Welcke  had  lost  his  temper, 
flown  into  a  rage,  made  a  rush  for  Van  Naghel  .  .  . 
She  was  now  here  with  Bertha  once  more;  and 
Papa's  portrait  stared  down  coldly  and  severely  upon 
the  two  sisters. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Bertha 
glanced  round  timidly:  she  felt  that,  in  the  big 
drawing-room,  at  the  card-tables,  the  brothers  and 
sisters  had  at  once  begun  to  talk  again,  criticizing 
her,  because  she  had  retired  for  a  moment  with  Con- 
stance .  .  .  with  Constance.  And,  lowering  her 
voice  to  a  hardly  audible  whisper,  she  murmured: 

"  Constance  .  .  .  Constance  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it,  Bertha?" 


2o6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Help  me  ...  help  me  ...  be  kind  to  me." 

"  But  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  nobody  knows  about  it  yet,  but  I  can't 
keep  it  all  ...  here  ...  to  myself!  " 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is  and  what  I  can  do." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do.  But,  Constance, 
I  felt  I  had  to  ...  had  to  ...  tell  you  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me  then." 

"  Nobody,  nobody  knows  yet  .  .  .  except  Louise 
and  Marianne." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Emilie  .  .  .  Emilie  has  .  .  ." 

"Has  what?" 

"  She  has  gone  away  .  .  .  with  Henri  .  .  ." 

"  Gone  away?  " 

"  Run  away  perhaps  .  .  .  with  Henri  ...  I 
don't  know  where.  Van  Raven  doesn't  know  where. 
Nobody  knows.  Adolph  van  Naghel,  my  brother- 
in-law  the  commissary,  has  made  enquiries  .  .  .  and 
has  found  out  nothing  .  .  .  We  dissuaded  her  from 
seeking  a  divorce ;  so  did  Adolph.  Then,  no  doubt 
because  of  that,  she  ran  away  with  Henri,  with  her 
brother.  She  absolutely  refuses  to  live  with  Eduard. 
She  has  run  away  .  .  .  Constance,  where  has  she 
gone  to  ?  I  don't  know !  Constance,  it's  a  terrible 
thing!  But  keep  it  to  yourself,  don't  tell  anybody. 
Mamma  doesn't  know.  I  want  to  pretend,  if 
there's  nothing  else  for  it,  if  they  don't  come  back, 
that  she  has  gone  on  a  little  journey,  a  trip  some- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  207 

where,  alone  with  her  brother.  We  must  pretend 
that,  Constance.  I  don't  think  they  intend  to  come 
back.  Henri  has  been  very  excited  lately :  he  fought 
Eduard,  came  to  blows  with  him,  for  ill-treating  his 
sister.  You  know  how  fond  they  are  of  each  other, 
Emilie  and  Henri.  It's  almost  unnatural,  in  a 
brother  and  sister.  Now  they've  run  away  .  .  . 
Oh  dear,  Constance,  I  am  so  terribly  unhappy!  " 

She  threw  herself  into  Constance'  arms,  sobbed, 
with  her  arms  round  Constance'  neck: 

"  Constance,  Constance,  help  me !  .  .  .  I  have  no 
one  to  turn  to,  no  one  I  can  talk  to.  Adolph  is 
helping  me  with  the  business-matters;  Otto  too. 
Louise  is  very  kind;  but  she  and  Otto  think  that 
Emilie  ought  to  divorce  her  husband,  on  the  ground 
of  cruelty.  But,  Constance,  in  our  class,  men  don't 
beat  their  wives !  It  never  happens.  It's  an  awful 
thing.  It  only  happens  with  the  lower  orders !  .  .  . 
Oh  dear,  Constance,  I  am  so  unhappy!  .  .  .  The 
business-matters  will  be  settled  .  .  .  But  there  are 
debts.  I  thought  that  we  were  living  within  our  in- 
come, but  I  don't  know:  there  appear  to  be  debts. 
Bills  mount  up  so  ...  I  did  so  hope  that  the  boys 
would  finish  their  course.  Frans  will;  but  now 
Henri  .  .  .  that  mad  idea  .  .  .  going  away  with 
Emilie  .  .  .  running  away  .  .  .  nobody  knows 
where  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  Constance,  I  am  so  unhappy: 
help  me,  do  help  me !  " 

She  lay  back  limply  in  Constance'  arms  and  the 


208  THE  LATER  LIFE 

tears  flowed  incessantly  down  her  pale  face,  which 
in  those  few  weeks  had  fallen  away  till  it  was  the 
face  of  an  old  woman.  She  lay  there  feeble  and  ill; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  Van  Naghel's  death,  coming  sud- 
denly as  an  additional  catastrophe  on  that  evening 
of  misfortunes  —  her  guests  in  the  drawing-room, 
Emilie  hiding  upstairs,  Van  Raven  waiting  below  — 
had  so  terribly  shaken  her  composure,  the  compo- 
sure of  a  prudent,  resourceful  woman  of  the  world, 
that  she  was  simply  compelled  to  speak  of  private 
matters  which  she  would  never  have  mentioned  be- 
fore .  .  .  An  instinct  drove  her  into  Constance' 
arms,  drove  her  to  unbosom  herself  to  Constance  as 
the  only  one  who  could  understand  her.  Her  near- 
sighted, blinking  eyes  sought  anxiously,  through  her 
tears,  to  read  the  expression  on  Constance'  face. 
And  she  was  so  broken,  so  shattered  that  Constance 
had  to  make  an  effort  to  realize  that  it  was  really 
Bertha  whom  she  held  in  her  arms. 

The  ill-feeling  which  she  had  cherished  for  months 
past  was  gone.  None  of  it  remained  in  her  soul,  in 
her  heart,  as  though  she  had  passed  out  of  the  depths 
of  that  atmosphere  to  purer  heights  of  understand- 
ing and  feeling.  Only  for  a  moment  did  she  still 
remember  that  evening  when  she  herself,  in  this  same 
room,  had  implored  Bertha  and  Van  Naghel  to  help 
her  "  rehabilitate "  herself  in  the  eyes  of  their 
friends  and  of  the  Hague.  It  seemed  long  ago, 
years  ago.  She  could  hardly  understand  herself: 


THE  LATER  LIFE  209 

that  she  could  have  begged  so  earnestly  for  some- 
thing that  was  so  small,  of  such  little  importance 
to  her  soul,  to  the  world.  She  could  not  have  done 
it  now  .  .  .  She  did  not  understand  how  she  could 
so  long  have  cherished  a  grudge  against  Van  Naghel, 
against  Bertha  .  .  .  because  they  did  not  ask 
her  to  their  official  dinners,  when  the  invitation 
would  have  given  her  the  rehabilitation  which  she 
sought.  At  the  present  moment,  she  did  not  even 
desire  that  rehabilitation,  did  not  care  about  it, 
treated  it  as  something  that  had  become  of  no  value : 
an  idea  which  had  withered  and  shrivelled  within  her 
and  which  blew  away  like  a  dead  leaf  to  far-off  spa- 
cious skies  .  .  .  Addie?  He  did  not  need  his 
mother's  rehabilitation  in  the  eyes  of  the  Hague. 
The  boy  would  make  his  own  way  in  life  .  .  .  Oh, 
how  small  she  had  been,  to  beg  for  it;  to  go  on  bear- 
ing a  grudge,  months  on  end,  for  something  so  little, 
so  infinitesimal  ...  so  absolutely  non-existent! 
.  .  .  She  felt  that  something  had  grown  up  inside 
her  and  was  looking  down  upon  all  that  earlier  busi- 
ness .  .  .  No,  there  was  no  bitterness  left.  She 
felt  a  deep  pity  and  a  sisterly  affection  for  this  poor, 
old  woman,  Bertha,  who  now  lay  feebly  and  impo- 
tently  in  her  arms,  begging  .  .  .  for  what?  She 
collected  her  thoughts :  what  could  she  do,  how  could 
she  help  Bertha?  Her  thoughts  crowded  upon  one 
another  rapidly;  she  thought  vaguely  of  Van  der 
Welcke,  of  Addie:  what  could  they  do,  how  could 


210  THE  LATER  LIFE 

they  help  Bertha,  how  get  upon  the  track  of  Emilie 
and  Henri?  And  in  the  end  she  could  think  of  no- 
thing to  say  but : 

"  Yes,  Bertha,  the  best  thing  will  be  to  pretend 
that  Emilie  has  gone  for  a  trip  with  her  brother. 
We  will  put  it  like  that,  if  necessary.  What  does 
Van  Raven  want  to  do  ?  " 

"  He  won't  consent  to  a  divorce  .  .  .  And  it 
would  be  an  awful  thing,  you  know  .  .  .  Oh,  Con- 
stance, they  have  not  been  married  ten  months !  " 

A  weariness  suddenly  came  over  her,  like  the 
abrupt  extinction  of  all  the  little  mundane  interests 
that  had  always  meant  so  much  to  her. 

"  But,"  she  murmured,  "  if  he  beats  her  .  .  .  per- 
haps it  is  better  that  they  should  be  divorced  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  .  .  .  We  are  going  to  Baarn:  there 
is  a  small  villa  to  let  there.  I  should  prefer  to  take 
it  at  once  and  go  down  there  with  Louise  and 
Marianne  .  .  .  Karel  gives  me  a  lot  of  trouble :  he 
doesn't  behave  well,  no,  he  doesn't  behave  well. 
And  he  is  still  so  young.  Perhaps  he  will  go  to  live 
with  Adolph,  his  guardian,  who  will  be  very  strict 
with  him.  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I  can  do  no- 
thing ...  I  used  to  do  everything  with  Van  Naghel, 
he  and  I  together.  He  was  really  good  and  kind. 
We  were  always  thinking  of  the  children,  both  of 
us.  He  was  tired  ...  of  being  in  the  Cabinet;  but 
he  went  on,  for  the  children's  sake  .  .  ." 

Her  unconscious  simplicity,  in  implying  that  Van 


THE  LATER  LIFE  211 

Naghel  was  in  the  Cabinet  for  the  sake  of  his  child- 
ren and  not  of  his  country,  seemed  to  strike  Con- 
stance for  the  first  time:  she  almost  smiled,  held 
Bertha  closer  to  her. 

"  He  couldn't  very  well  resign  .  .  .  and  he  didn't 
want  to,"  Bertha  continued,  feebly.  "  And  now  I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  I  feel  so  very  much  alone; 
and  yet  I  was  once  a  capable  woman,  wasn't  I,  Con- 
stance? Now  I  no  longer  feel  capable.  Perhaps 
that  life  was  too  crowded.  And,  Constance,  what 
was  the  use  of  it  all?  My  children,  our  children, 
for  whom  we  lived,  are  none  of  them  happy.  I  have 
grown  weary  and  old  .  .  .  for  nothing.  I  wish 
that  we  were  at  Baarn  now.  I  want  to  live  there 
quietly,  with  the  two  girls.  Louise  is  nice,  so  is 
Marianne.  They  neither  of  them  want  to  go  about 
any  more.  They're  not  happy,  no,  they  are  not 
happy.  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  children!  .  .  .  You 
must  never  tell  Mamma,  Constance.  Mamma 
doesn't  know:  dear  Mamma!  There  is  no  need  for 
her  to  know,  poor  dear!  Better  leave  her  under 
the  impression  that  all  is  well  with  us,  even  though 
Van  Naghel  is  gone  .  .  ." 

And  she  sobbed  at  the  thought  that  she  was  alone. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  drew  herself  up  a  little,  made 
Constance  take  a  chair,  sat  down  beside  her  and 
asked,  peering  anxiously  through  her  tears  into  Con- 
stance' face: 

"Constance,  tell  me  .  .  .  Marianne?" 


212  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"Yes,  Bertha?" 

"Are  you  fond  of  Marianne?" 

"  Yes,  very." 

"Still?" 

"Yes,  still." 

"  Constance  .  .  .." 

"Yes,  Bertha?" 

"  It  is  just  as  well  .  .  .  that  we  are  going 
to  Baarn  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Constance:  Van  der 
Welcke  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Bertha?  "  asked  Constance, 
gently. 

'*  Is  ...  is  it  his  fault?  ...  Is  he  a  gentle- 
man?" 

Constance  defended  her  husband  calmly,  but  not 
without  astonishment  that  Bertha  could  speak  so 
frankly  about  that  ...  as  if  they  both  knew  all 
about  it: 

"  No,  Bertha,  I  don't  think  that  Henri  .  .  .  that 
it  is  Henri's  fault.  I  don't  think  it's  Marianne's 
fault  either.  Bertha,  I  don't  believe  they  can  help 
it.  They  have  an  attraction  for  each  other,  a  very 
great  attraction  .  .  ." 

A  tenderness  came  over  her  soul,  like  a  glow,  like 
a  glowing  compassion. 

"  Constance,  they  must  not  let  themselves  go. 
They  must  struggle  against  it." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  213 

"Who  can  tell  what  they  are  doing,  Bertha? 
Who  can  tell  what  goes  on  inside  them?  " 

"  No,  they  are  not  struggling." 

"Who  can  tell?" 

"  No,  no  ...  Constance,  it  is  just  as  well  that 
we  are  going  to  Baarn." 

They  heard  voices  in  the  drawing-room,  loud 
voices,  with  an  Indian  accent.  The  Ruyvenaers 
were  going: 

"  Good-bye,  Ber-r-rtha,"  said  Aunt  Lot,  looking 
through  the  door.  "  We're  going,  Ber-r-rtha." 

Constance  and  Bertha  went  back  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Bertha  forgot  to  wipe  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  kissed  Aunt  Lot.  Adolphine  and  Cateau 
came  up  to  Bertha: 

"  Ber-tha,"  whined  Cateau;  and  this  time  she 
whined  with  a  vengeance.  "  We  just  want-ed  to  say 
a  word  to  you.  Emilie-tje  must  not  get  a  di-vorce." 

"  No,"  said  Adolphine,  "  if  she  goes  and  gets  a 
divorce,  the  family  will  become  impossible.  It'll 
create  a  scandal,  if  they  are  divorced." 

"  Ye-es,"  Cateau  droned  aloud,  "  it  would  be  a 
scan-dal,  Ber-tha.  Don't  you  think  so  too,  Con- 
stance? " 

"  There's  no  question  of  it  ...  for  the  mo- 
ment," said  Constance.  "  Emilie  has  gone  abroad 
for  a  bit  with  Henri;  and  the  change  is  sure  to  do 
her  good  and  make  her  a  little  calmer." 

"Oh?  .  .  .  Has  she  gone  a-broad?" 


2i4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

'  Where  to?  "  asked  Adolphine,  all  agog. 
'  They  were  to  go  to  Paris,"  said  Constance,  with- 
out hesitating. 

"O-oh?  .  .  .  Has  Emilie-tje  gone  to  .  .  . 
Pa-ris?  " 

4  Yes,  with  her  brother,"  Constance  repeated. 

A  minute  later,  she  found  an  opportunity  of  say- 
ing quietly  to  Bertha: 

"It's  better  like  that,  Bertha;  better  to  say  it 
as  if  it  was  quite  natural  ...  If  you  don't  say  it 
yourself  .  .  .  and  they  come  to  hear  .  .  ." 

;<  Thank  you,  Constance  .  .  .  thank  you." 

"  Oh,  Bertha  ...  I  wish  I  could  do  something 
for  you !  " 

"  You  have  helped  me  as  it  is  ...  Thank  you 
.  .  .  That's  all  that  I  can  say  .  .  ." 

She  lay  back  helplessly  in  her  chair,  staring  dimly 
before  her.  Constance  followed  her  glance.  She 
saw  that  Van  der  Welcke  had  come,  very  late.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  conservatory  —  where  the  boys 
had  cleared  away  the  cards  after  their  game,  as 
Grandmamma  always  expected  them  to  do  —  sitting 
a  little  in  the  shadow,  but  still  visible.  He  was 
bending  over  towards  Marianne,  who  sat  beside  him, 
her  face  a  white  patch  in  the  darkness :  a  frail  little 
black  figure  making  a  faint  blur  in  the  dim  conserva- 
tory, where  the  gas  was  now  turned  out.  She 
seemed  to  be  weeping  silently,  sat  crushing  her  hand- 
kerchief. He  appeared  to  be  saying  something, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  215 

anxiously  and  tenderly,  while  he  bent  still  nearer  to 
her.  Then,  suddenly,  he  took  her  hand,  pressed  it 
impulsively.  Marianne  looked  up  in  alarm.  Her 
eyes  met,  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  drawing-room, 
the  eyes  of  Aunt  Constance,  the  dull,  staring  eyes  of 
her  mother.  She  drew  away  her  hand  .  .  .  and  her 
pale  face  flushed  with  a  glow  of  shame  .  .  . 

Grandmamma  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing- 
room,  a  little  sad  at  the  gloom  which  the  recent 
mourning  had  cast  over  her  rooms.  The  children 
took  their  leave. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CONSTANCE  began  to  love  her  loneliness  more  and 
more. 

Her  daily  life  was  very  uneventful:  she  could 
count  the  people  with  whom  she  came  into  contact. 
First  her  husband  and  her  son :  there  was  something 
gentler  in  her  attitude  towards  Van  der  Welcke, 
something  almost  motherly,  which  prevented  her 
from  getting  angry  with  him,  even  though  the  in- 
clination welled  up  within  her.  Addie  was  as  usual, 
perhaps  even  a  little  more  serious:  this  disquieted 
her.  Then  there  was  Brauws,  who  came  regularly. 
He  dined  with  them  regularly,  on  a  fixed  day  in  the 
week,  quite  informally;  and  moreover  he  had  become 
the  friend  of  both  Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance 
and  even  of  Addie.  Then  there  were  Mamma, 
Gerrit  and  his  little  tribe  and,  now  and  again,  Paul. 
And  then  there  was  Van  Vreeswijck;  and  Marianne, 
of  course;  and  latterly  she  had  seen  more  of  Bertha. 
For  the  rest  she  seemed  to  drift  away  from  all 
the  others,  even  from  warm-hearted  Aunt  Lot.  She 
kept  in  touch  only  with  those  with  whom  she  was 
really  in  sympathy. 

Still,  though  she  had  these  few  friends,  she  often 
216 


THE  LATER  LIFE  217 

had  quite  lonely  afternoons.  But  they  did  not  de- 
press her;  she  gazed  out  at  the  rain,  at  the  cloud- 
phantoms.  And  she  dreamed  .  .  .  along  the  path 
of  light.  She  smiled  at  her  dream.  Even  though 
she  very  much  feared  the  absurdity  of  it  for  herself, 
she  could  not  help  it:  a  new  youthfulness  filled  her 
with  a  gentle  glow,  a  new  tenderness,  like  the  deli- 
cate bloom  of  a  young  girl's  soul  dreaming  of  the 
wonderful  future  .  .  .  And  then  she  would  come 
back  to  herself  suddenly  and  smile  at  her  sentimen- 
tality and  summon  up  all  her  matronly  common- 
sense;  and  she  would  think: 

"  Come,  I  oughtn't  to  be  sitting  like  this!  .  .  . 
Come,  I  oughtn't  to  be  acting  like  this  and  thinking 
of  everything  and  nothing!  .  .  .  Certainly,  I  like 
him  very  much;  but  why  cannot  I  do  that  without 
these  strange  thoughts,  without  dreaming  and  pictur- 
ing all  manner  of  things  and  filling  my  head  with 
romantic  fancies  ...  as  if  I  were  a  girl  of  eighteen 
or  twenty?  .  .  .  Oh,  those  are  the  things  which  we 
do  not  speak  about,  the  deep  secret  things  which  we 
never  tell  to  anybody!  ...  I  should  never  have 
suspected  them  in  myself  ...  or  that  they  could 
be  so  exquisitely  sweet  to  me.  How  strangely  sweet, 
to  dream  myself  back  to  youth  in  visions  which, 
though  they  never  really  take  shape,  yet  make  a 
shining  path  to  those  cloudy  skies,  to  imagine  my- 
self young  again  in  those  dreams!  ...  If  I  never 
had  these  thoughts  and  dreams  before,  why  do  I 


2i8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

have  them  now?  Come,  I  oughtn't  to  be  sitting  like 
this  and  thinking  like  this !  .  .  .  I  make  up  a  host  of 
pretty  stories,  sentimental  little  stories,  and  see  my- 
self, see  us  both,  years  ago,  as  quite  young  children, 
both  of  us.  He  played  and  I  played  .  .  .  almost 
the  same  game :  he  a  boy,  I  a  girl.  It  was  as  though 
he  were  seeking  me.  It  was  as  though  I,  in  my 
childish  dreams,  divined  something  of  him,  far,  far 
away,  as  though  there  were  a  part  of  me  that  wanted 
to  go  to  him,  a  part  of  him  that  wanted  to  come  to 
me  .  .  .  Stop,  I  am  giving  way  again  to  those 
secret  enthusiasms  which  lie  deep  down  in  my  soul 
like  strange,  hidden  streams,  those  vague,  romantic 
ferments  such  as  I  imagined  that  young  girls  might 
have,  but  not  I,  a  woman  of  my  years,  a  woman  with 
my  past,  the  mother  of  a  big  son  ...  I  will  not  do 
it  any  more,  I  will  not  ...  It  is  morbid  to  be  like 
this  .  .  .  And  yet  ...  and  yet  .  .  .  when  the 
wind  blows  and  the  rain  comes  down,  it  is,  it  still  is 
the  dear  secret  that  brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes  .  .  . 
If  I  love  him,  quite  silently,  deep  down  within  my- 
self, why  may  I  not  just  dream  like  that?  The  ab- 
surdity of  it  exists  only  for  me:  nobody,  nobody 
knows  of  it.  I  have  some  one  else  hidden  within 
me:  a  younger  woman,  a  sister,  a  young  sister-soul, 
a  girl's  soul  almost.  It  is  absurd,  I  know;  but  some- 
times, sometimes  it  is  so  strong  in  me  and  I  love 
him  so  well  and  feel,  just  like  a  girl,  that  he  is  the 
first  man  I  have  ever  loved  .  .  .  Oh,  Henri!  I  caa 


THE  LATER  LIFE  219 

see  now  what  that  was:  he  was  young;  it  was  at  first 
mere  play-acting,  just  like  a  comedy;  then  it  became 
passion,  very  quickly,  a  mad  impulse,  an  almost 
feverish  impulse  to  hold  him  in  my  arms.  That  is 
all  dead.  Passion  is  dead  .  .  .  This  is  a  dream, 
a  young  girl's  dream.  It  is  the  beginning.  It  is  ab- 
surd; and  I  am  often  ashamed  of  it,  for  my  own 
sake.  But  I  cannot  resist  it:  it  envelops  me,  just  as 
the  spring  sunshine  and  the  scent  of  the  may  and  the 
cherry-blossom  in  the  Woods  envelop  one  with 
languorous  sweetness.  I  cannot  resist  it,  I  can  not 
resist  it.  My  eyes  go  towards  those  clouds,  my  soul 
goes  towards  those  clouds,  my  dreams  go  towards 
them  .  .  .  and  I  love  him,  I  love  him  ...  I  feel 
ashamed:  sometimes  I  dare  not  look  my  son  in  the 
face  ...  I  love  him,  I  love  him;  and  I  feel 
ashamed :  sometimes  I  dare  not  go  across  the  street, 
as  though  people  would  notice  it,  by  the  light  on  my 
face  .  .  .  But  ah,  no,  that  light  does  not  shine  from 
me,  because  I  am  old!  It  does  from  Marianne, 
poor  child,  but  not  from  me  .  .  .  oh,  thank  God 
for  that!  ...  I  want  to  struggle  against  it,  but  it 
is  stronger  than  I;  and,  when  I  think  of  him,  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  numbed  here  in  my  chair.  When  he 
comes  into  the  room,  I  tremble,  powerless  to  make 
a  movement.  Let  me  be  ashamed  of  myself,  argue 
with  myself,  struggle  as  I  may,  it  is  so,  it  is  something 
real,  as  though  I  had  never  felt  anything  real  in 
my  life :  it  is  a  dream  and  it  is  also  reality  .  .  ." 


220  THE  LATER  LIFE 

She  often  strove  against  it,  but  the  dream  was 
always  too  strong  for  her,  enveloping  her  as  with  a 
multitude  of  languorous  spring  scents.  It  imparted 
a  strange  tenderness  to  her,  to  her  fresh,  round  face, 
the  face  of  a  woman  in  her  prime,  with  the  strange, 
soft,  curly  hair,  which  the  years  were  changing  with- 
out turning  grey.  If  he  came,  she  awoke  from  that 
dream,  but  felt  herself  blissfully  languid  and  faint. 

"  I  am  not  a  girl,"  she  thought,  now  that  she 
heard  herself  speak;  but  her  fixed  idea,  that  she  was 
old,  quite  old,  retreated  a  little  way  into  the  back- 
ground. 

But,  though  she  now  no  longer  felt  so  old  in  her 
dream,  after  her  dream  she  thought  herself  igno- 
rant. Oh,  how  ignorant  she  was!  And  why  had 
she  never  acquired  an  atom  of  knowledge  in  her 
wasted  days,  in  her  squandered,  empty  years. 
When  she  was  talking  to  Brauws  —  and  now  that  he 
came  regularly,  they  often  talked  together,  long  and 
earnestly,  in  the  friendly  twilight  —  she  thought : 

"  How  ignorant  I  am!  " 

She  had  to  make  an  effort  sometimes  to  follow 
him  in  the  simplest  things  that  he  said.  She  was 
obliged  to  confess  to  him  that  she  had  never  learnt 
very  much.  But  he  said  that  that  was  a  good  thing, 
that  it  had  kept  her  mind  fresh.  She  shook  her 
head  in  disclaimer;  she  confessed  that  she  was  igno- 
rant and  stupid.  He  protested;  but  she  told  him 


THE  LATER  LIFE  221 

frankly  that  it  sometimes  tired  her  to  follow  him. 
And  she  was  so  honest  with  him  that  she  herself  was 
sometimes  surprised  at  it.  If  ever  their  conversa- 
tion became  too  hopelessly  deep,  she  preferred  to  be 
silent  rather  than  lie  or  even  seek  an  evasion  in 
words  .  .  .  Ignorant,  yes;  and  it  distressed  her  to 
such  an  extent  that,  one  afternoon,  when  Henri  was 
out  and  Addie  at  school,  she  went  to  her  son's  room 
and  opened  his  book-case.  In  addition  to  the  ordi- 
nary school-manuals,  it  contained  a  few  boys'-books ; 
and  she  laughed  at  herself,  her  little  tender,  mocking 
laugh  of  gentle  irony.  But  she  found  a  couple  of 
volumes  on  Universal  History,  a  present  from  Van 
der  Welcke  to  Addie,  who  was  very  fond  of  history; 
and  she  opened  them  where  she  stood.  She  turned 
the  pages.  She  was  afraid  that  some  one  might 
come  in:  the  maid,  perhaps,  by  accident.  She  sat 
down  in  the  only  easy-chair,  impregnated  with  the 
smoke  of  the  cigarettes  which  Van  der  Welcke 
smoked  one  after  the  other,  silently,  while  Addie  was 
preparing  his  lessons;  and  she  turned  the  pages  and 
read.  She  continued  to  suffer  from  that  sense  of 
her  own  absurdity.  She  felt  like  a  schoolgirl 
dreaming  .  .  .  and  learning  her  lessons.  She  went 
on  reading;  and,  when  Truitje  was  looking  for  her 
all  over  the  house  and  she  heard  her  ask  the  cook 
where  on  earth  mevrouw  could  be,  she  blushed  vio- 
lently, quickly  put  the  books  back  on  the  shelves  and 


222  THE  LATER  LIFE 

left  the  room.  She  would  have  liked  to  take  the 
books  with  her,  but  dared  not;  however,  that  even- 
ing at  dinner  she  plucked  up  courage  and  said : 

"  Addie,  Mr.  Brauws  was  saying  something  about 
the  French  Revolution  the  other  day;  and  I  felt  so 
stupid  at  being  so  ignorant  on  the  subject.  Have 
you  any  books  about  it?  " 

Yes,  he  had  this  book  and  that  book,  in  fact  he 
had  always  been  attracted  by  that  period  and  had 
collected  as  many  books  upon  it  as  his  scanty  pocket- 
money  permitted.  He  would  bring  them  to  her 
after  dinner.  And  she  acquired  a  sort  of  passion 
for  reading  and  learning.  She  indulged  it  almost 
hastily,  feverishly,  without  any  method,  as  though 
nervously  anxious  to  make  up  for  the  deficiencies  of 
her  own  education.  And  at  the  same  time  she  was 
frightened  lest  other  people  —  even  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Addie  —  should  notice  that  fevered  haste ;  and 
she  devoured  book  after  book  with  studied  cunning, 
sometimes  turning  the  pages  over  hurriedly,  fever- 
ishly, then  again  reading  more  attentively,  but  never 
leaving  the  books  about,  always  replacing  them  on 
her  boy's  shelves,  or  returning  them  to  Brauws  and 
Paul  when  they  had  been  borrowed  from  them,  or 
carefully  putting  away  those  which  she  had  bought 
herself,  so  that  her  room  apparently  remained  the 
same,  without  the  confusion  and  untidiness  of  a  lot 
of  books.  Her  reading  was  a  strange  medley:  a 
volume  of  Quack's  Socialists,  which  Brauws  lent  her; 


THE  LATER  LIFE  223 

Zola's  novel,  L'CEuvre;  a  pamphlet  by  Bakunin  and 
an  odd  number  of  the  Gids;  a  copy  of  The  Imitation 
which  had  strayed  among  Van  der  Welcke's  books; 
Gonse  on  Japanese  Art;  Tolstoi's  novels  and  pam- 
phlets. But  it  was  a  strange  bold  power  of  discrim- 
ination that  at  once  taught  her  to  pick  and  choose 
amid  the  chaos  of  all  this  literature,  made  her  accept 
this  and  reject  that:  a  psychological  analysis;  a  new 
work  on  modern  social  evolution;  an  aesthetic  rhap- 
sody about  a  Japanese  vase.  She  learnt  quickly  to 
look  into  them  boldly  and  to  take  from  them  what 
was  able  as  it  were  to  develop  her;  and  out  of  many 
of  those  books  there  flashed  forth  such  entirely  new 
revelations  of  hitherto  unperceived  truths  that  often, 
tired,  dazed,  astounded,  she  asked  herself: 

"  Is  there  so  much  then?  Is  so  much  thought 
about,  dreamt  about,  so  much  sought  for,  lived  for? 
Do  people  have  those  visions  then,  those  dreams? 
And  does  it  all  exist?  And  can  it  all  be  taken  in 
by  me,  by  my  intelligence?  " 

And,  as  she  thought,  it  seemed  as  if  crape  veils 
were  being  raised  everywhere  from  before  her  and 
as  if  she,  whose  gaze  had  never  wandered  from  her 
family  and  friends,  now  saw,  suddenly,  through  the 
distant  clouds,  right  into  those  cities,  right  into  those 
civilizations,  into  the  future,  into  the  past,  into  so 
much  of  the  present  as  still  hovered  closely  around 
her  own  existence.  She  experienced  shock  after 
shock:  she  felt  dimly  that  even  the  terrible  French 


224  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Revolution,  though  it  did  cost  Marie-Antoinette 
her  life,  had  its  good  side.  Zola  seemed  to  her  so 
magnificent  that  she  was  almost  frightened  at  her 
own  enthusiasm  and  dared  not  put  her  feeling  into 
words.  And  the  noble  dreams  of  those  apostles  of 
humanity,  even  though  they  anathematized  the  power 
of  the  State  and  money — all  that  she  had  uncon- 
sciously looked  upon,  all  her  life,  as  indispensable  to 
civilized  society  —  made  her  quiver  first  with  alarm, 
then  with  compassion,  then  with  terror,  with  despair, 
with  exultation  .  .  .  She  did  not  utter  her 
thoughts;  only,  in  her  conversations  with  Brauws, 
she  felt  that  she  was  gradually  better  able  to  follow 
him,  that  she  was  more  responsive,  less  vague  in  her 
replies  ...  If  in  all  this,  this  new  self-education, 
there  was  something  hurried  and  superficial,  the 
tremulous  haste  of  an  eager,  nervous  woman  who 
fears  that  she  is  devoting  herself  too  late  to  what 
is  vitally  necessary,  there  was  at  the  same  time  some- 
thing fresh  and  ingenuous,  something  youthful  and 
unspoilt,  like  the  enthusiasm  of  a  woman  still  young 
who,  after  her  girlish  dreams,  wants  to  grasp  some 
part  of  the  vivid,  many-coloured,  radiant  life  around 
her,  who  grasps  with  joyous  open  hands  at  the 
colours  and  the  sunbeams  and  who,  though  she 
grasps  wildly,  nevertheless  gathers  fresh  life  in  her 
illusion  .  .  .  She  gathered  fresh  life.  The  wind 
that  blew  outside  seemed  to  blow  through  her  soul; 
the  rain  that  pelted  seemed  actually  to  wash  her  face ; 


THE  LATER  LIFE  225 

the  continual  gusts  on  every  hand  blew  the  mist 
from  before  her  eyes,  drew  it  aside  like  a  curtain 
.  .  .  Her  eyes  sparkled;  and,  when  the  winter  had 
done  blowing  and  raining,  when  suddenly,  without 
any  transition,  a  breath  of  spring  —  the  limpid  blue 
of  the  sky,  the  tender  green  of  the  stirring  earth  — 
floated  over  and  through  the  Woods,  it  was  as 
though  she  yearned  for  movement.  She  managed, 
every  afternoon  that  Addie  was  free,  to  take  him 
away  from  Van  der  Welcke  and  to  lure  him  out  for 
a  long  walk,  out  of  the  town,  over  the  dunes,  ever 
so  far.  Addie,  with  his  eyes  bright  with  laughing 
surprise,  thought  it  very  jolly  of  her  and  would  go 
with  her,  though  he  was  no  walker  and  preferred 
bicycling,  athirst  for  speed.  But,  in  his  young,  gal- 
lant boy's  soul,  he  laughed  softly,  thought  Mamma 
charming:  grown  years  younger,  grown  into  a  young 
woman,  suddenly,  in  her  short  skirt,  her  little  cloth 
cape,  with  the  sailor-hat  on  her  curly  hair  and  the 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  slim-waisted,  quick-footed,  her 
voice  clear,  her  laugh  sometimes  ringing  out  sud- 
denly. He  thought  of  Papa  and  that  she  was  now 
becoming  as  young  as  he;  and  Addie  felt  himself  old 
beside  her.  He  saw  nothing  of  what  was  happening 
in  his  mother,  even  as  nobody  saw  it,  for  she  kept  it 
to  herself,  was  no  different  to  the  others,  spoke  no 
differently  to  the  others,  perhaps  only  just  with  a 
brighter  laugh.  What  she  read,  what  she  learnt, 
what  she  felt,  what  she  thought :  all  this  was  not  per- 


226  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ceptible  to  the  others.  It  did  not  shine  out  from  her ; 
and  her  foot  merely  moved  a  shade  quicker,  her 
speech  became  a  shade  more  spontaneous.  But 
everything  that  blossomed  and  flamed  up  in  her  she 
kept  to  herself,  in  the  vast  silence  of  her  broad  but 
unshared  vistas.  To  her  husband  she  was  gentler,  to 
her  son  she  was  younger.  Only  now,  in  those  walks, 
perhaps  Addle  was  the  one  person  in  her  life  who 
noticed  that,  when  Mamma  happened  to  mention 
Mr.  Brauws'  name,  an  unusual  note  sounded  in  her 
brighter,  younger  voice.  A  boy  of  his  age  does  not 
analyse  a  subtle  perception  of  this  kind;  only,  with- 
out reasoning,  without  analysing,  just  instinctively, 
this  boy  of  fourteen  thought  of  his  father,  whom  he 
worshipped  with  a  strange,  protecting  adoration  such 
as  one  gives  to  a  brother  or  a  friend  —  a  younger 
brother,  a  younger  friend  —  and  felt  a  pang  of  jea- 
lousy on  his  behalf,  jealousy  of  this  man  who  did 
what  Papa  never  did,  talked  with  Mamma  for  hours 
three  or  four  times  a  week,  so  often  in  fact  that  she 
was  growing  younger,  that  she  had  taken  to  reading, 
so  as  no  longer  to  be  ignorant,  that  she  had  deve- 
loped a  need  for  walking  great  distances.  But  the 
lad  kept  this  jealousy  locked  up  within  himself,  al- 
lowed none  to  perceive  it.  Perhaps  he  was  just  a 
trifle  colder  to  him,  to  this  man,  the  friend  of  the 
family,  though  Brauws  was  so  fond  of  him,  Addie, 
almost  passionately  fond  of  him  indeed:  Addie  knew 
that.  This  jealousy  for  his  father,  jealousy  of  that 


THE  LATER  LIFE  227 

friend  of  the  family,  was  very  strong  in  him;  and 
he  felt  himself  to  be  the  child  of  both  his  parents, 
felt  within  himself  their  double  heritage  of  jealousy. 
The  image  of  his  father  appeared  constantly  before 
him,  appeared  between  the  images  of  Brauws  and 
of  his  mother.  But  he  let  her  see  nothing  of  it. 

She  gathered  fresh  life  in  those  walks.  When 
Addie  was  at  school,  she  walked  alone,  no  longer 
fearing  the  loneliness  out  of  doors,  she  who  had 
come  to  love  her  indoor  loneliness  and  the  still 
deeper  loneliness  of  her  soul.  It  was  as  though, 
after  dreaming  and  educating  herself  —  quickly, 
nervously,  superficially  and  with  youthful  simplicity 
—  in  what  great  men  had  thought  and  written,  she 
felt  herself  breathe  again  in  the  midst  of  nature. 
No  longer  from  her  arm-chair,  through  the  windows, 
along  the  bend  of  the  curtains  did  she  see  the  great 
clouds,  but  she  now  saw  them  out  of  doors  and  over- 
head, blue,  white,  immense,  irradiated  by  the  sun  in 
the  vault  of  the  boundless  spring  skies  all  vocal  with 
birds,  saw  them  as  she  stood  on  the  dunes,  with  the 
wind  all  round  her  head,  all  round  her  hair  and 
blowing  through  her  skirts.  .  .  . 

"  I  love  him,  I  love  him,"  a  voice  inside  her  sang 
softly  and  yet  insistently,  while  the  wind's  strong 
passion  seemed  to  lift  her  up  and  waft  her  along. 

But  in  the  movement  of  her  hands  there  was 
something  as  though  she  were  resisting  the  wind, 
with  a  smile  of  gentle  irony,  of  tender  mockery. 


228  THE  LATER  LIFE 

The  wind  blew  past,  as  if  grumbling,  and  she  walked 
on,  saw  the  sea.  She  seemed  to  look  upon  the  sea 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  as  though,  in  the  strong 
wind,  under  the  blue-white  clouds,  the  sea  streamed 
to  her  for  the  first  time  from  the  ethereal  fount  of 
the  horizon  and  were  now  rushing  towards  her,  roar- 
ing and  frothing,  like  a  triumph  of  multitudinous, 
white-crested  horses.  And  the  sky  and  the  sea  were 
as  one  great  triumph  of  mighty,  omnipotent  nature. 
A  nameless  but  overwhelming  triumph  seemed  from 
out  of  those  clouds  to  hold  reins  in  thousands  of 
fists,  the  reins  of  the  multitudinous  white-crested 
horses;  and  all  that  triumph  of  nature  advanced  to- 
wards her  like  a  riot  of  youth.  It  was  as  though 
every  atom  of  her  former  life,  every  memory  flew 
away  around  her  like  sand,  like  dust,  like  straw.  It 
all  flew  away;  and  the  waves  broke,  the  sea  uplifted 
itself  like  an  exulting  menace,  as  though  to  carry 
her  with  it  in  the  riotous  rush  of  its  triumphant 
crested  steeds,  over  all  that  small  life,  over  every- 
thing ...  if  she  did  not  take  care. 

It  was  all  big,  wide,  far-reaching,  like  a  world. 
When  she  reached  home,  she  was  tired  out,  sobered 
by  the  tram-ride  and  the  last  bit  of  walking,  past 
casual,  shadowy  people.  Worn  out,  she  fell  asleep, 
woke  shortly  before  dinner,  welcomed  Addie  in  a 
dream.  Until  sometimes  she  read  her  son's  eyes, 
made  an  effort,  plunged  her  face  in  a  basin  of  water, 
tried  to  be,  to  appear  as  she  had  always  been.  And 


THE  LATER  LIFE  229 

then,  in  the  glass,  she  saw  herself  like  that,  to  all  ap- 
pearance the  same  woman,  with  just  something  live- 
lier in  her  eyes,  her  gait,  her  movements.  But  inside 
her  everything  was  changed. 

At  home  sometimes  the  past  would  still  rise  up 
before  her,  but  different,  quite  different.  She 
seemed  to  withdraw  from  her  former  personality  and 
it  was  as  though,  far  removed  from  the  woman  that 
she  had  once  been,  she  was  now  for  the  first  time 
able  to  judge  her  past  from  another  point  of  view 
than  her  own.  She  saw  suddenly  what  her  father 
must  have  suffered,  Mamma,  the  brothers  even,  the 
sisters.  She  realized  for  the  first  time  the  sacrifice 
which  those  old,  pious  people,  Henri's  parents,  had 
made.  She  thought  in  dismay  of  the  injury  which 
she  had  done  her  first  husband,  De  Staffelaer.  She 
thought  of  them  all,  in  dismay  at  herself,  in  com- 
passion for  them.  And  she  felt  sorry  even  for  her 
husband  and  for  what  he  had  always  querulously 
resented,  his  shattered  career,  which  had  constituted 
his  grudge,  his  obsession,  the  excuse  for  his  inertia: 
for  Van  der  Welcke  and  even  for  that  grudge  she 
felt  compassion.  How  young  he  was  when  she  met 
him,  when  they  had  acted  their  comedy,  their  comedy 
which  had  become  deadly  earnest !  And  she  had  at 
once  fettered  him  to  herself,  in  ever-increasing  an- 
tagonism! Then  her  eyes  would  rest  on  him  with 
a  more  understanding  glance,  sometimes  almost  with 
a  certain  pity,  as  she  looked  into  his  eyes,  his  young 


23o  THE  LATER  LIFE 

blue  boyish  eyes,  which  Addie  had  inherited  from 
him,  but  which  in  the  father  looked  younger,  more 
boyish  than  in  the  son.  If,  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  the  inclination  to  speak  to  him  irritably  welled 
up  in  her  from  the  eternal  antagonism  between  them, 
as  from  a  gloomy  spring  deep  down  in  her,  she 
would  restrain  herself,  control  herself  with  that  new 
sympathy  and  pity,  answer  gently,  almost  jokingly, 
and  would  let  him  have  the  last  word.  And,  now 
that  she  herself  was  in  love  and  felt  herself  live 
again,  she  had  a  sympathy  that  was  almost  motherly 
for  his  love,  even  though  she  herself  was  beginning 
to  feel  young  again,  and  with  it  a  strange  tenderness 
for  the  two  of  them,  Marianne  and  Henri.  She  did 
not  think  of  the  danger  for  him;  she  still  had  only, 
in  her  new  world  of  romance,  a  sympathy  for  ro- 
mance. He  was  her  husband,  but  she  felt  none  of 
a  wife's  jealousy.  And  for  Marianne  she  felt  the 
same  strange  compassion,  as  for  a  younger  sister-in- 
love.  .  .  . 

There  came  to  her  scarcely  a  fleeting  thought  of 
the  immorality  which  the  world,  people,  small  peo- 
ple —  the  whirlers  in  the  little  circle,  with  their  little 
prejudices  and  dogmas,  their  little  creeds  and  philoso- 
phies —  would  see  in  such  strange  views  from  a  mar- 
ried woman  concerning  herself  and  a  friend,  concern- 
ing her  husband  and  the  little  niece  with  whom  her 
husband  was  evidently  in  love.  She  was  a  small 
creature  like  all  of  them,  she  was  a  small  soul,  like 


THE  LATER  LIFE  231 

all  of  them;  but  her  soul  at  least  was  growing,  grow- 
ing upwards  and  outwards;  she  no  longer  felt  de- 
pressed; and  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  being  borne  on 
wings  to  the  greater  cloud-worlds  yonder,  to  the  far 
cities,  where  flashed  the  lightnings  of  the  new  reve- 
lations, the  new  realities.  .  .  . 

Everything  in  her  was  changed.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MAX  BRAUWS  was  a  thinker  as  well  as  a  man  of 
action;  and  each  of  these  two  personalities  insisted  on 
having  its  period  of  domination.  After  his  college 
days,  he  had  wandered  over  Europe  for  years, 
vaguely  seeking  an  object  in  life.  Deep  down  in 
himself,  notwithstanding  all  his  restless  activity,  he, 
remained  a  dreamer,  as  he  had  been  in  his  childhood 
and  boyhood.  It  seemed  as  if  that  which  he  had 
sought  in  his  dreams  when  playing  as  a  boy  on  the 
fir-clad  hills  and  over  the  moors  went  on  beckoning 
him,  darkly  and  elusively,  a  mystic,  nebulous  veil 
on  the  dim  horizons  of  the  past;  and,  when 
he  ran  towards  them,  those  far  horizons,  they  re- 
ceded more  and  more  into  the  distance,  fading  little 
by  little;  and  the  veil  was  like  a  little  cloud,  melting 
into  thin  air.  .  .  .  He  had  wandered  about  for 
years,  his  soul  oppressed  by  a  load  of  knowledge,  by 
the  load  of  knowing  all  that  men  had  thought, 
planned,  believed,  dreamed,  worshipped,  achieved. 
An  almost  mechanically  accurate  memory  had  ar- 
ranged those  loads  in  his  brain  in  absolute  order; 
and,  if  he  had  not  been  above  all  things  driven  by  the 
unrest  of  his  imagination,  with  its  eternal  dreaming 
and  its  eternal  yearning  to  find  what  it  sought,  he 
would  have  become  a  quiet  scholar,  living  in  the  coun- 

232 


THE  LATER  LIFE  233 

try,  far  from  cities,  with  a  great  library  around  him; 
for  very  often,  when  spent  with  weariness,  he  had 
a  vision  of  an  ideal  repose.  But  the  unrest  and  the 
yearning  had  always  driven  him  on,  driven  him 
through  the  world;  and  they  had  both  made  him 
seek,  for  himself  as  well  as  for  others,  because,  if  he 
had  found  for  others,  he  would  also  have  found  for 
himself.  They,  the  unrest  and  the  yearning,  had 
driven  him  on  towards  the  great  centres  of  life,  to- 
wards the  black  gloom  of  the  English  and  German 
manufacturing-towns,  towards  the  unhappy  moujiks 
in  Russia,  towards  the  famine-stricken  villages  of 
Sicily,  all  in  a  heart-rending  passion  to  know,  to  have 
seen,  penetrated  and  experienced  all  the  misery  of 
the  world.  And  the  capitals  had  risen  up  around 
him  like  gigantic  Babels  of  fevered  pride,  accumula- 
tions of  egotisms;  the  smoke  of  the  manufacturing- 
towns  had  smeared  along  the  horizon  of  his  life  the 
soot-black  clouds  through  which  he  could  not  see  and 
in  which  the  days  remained  eternally  defiled;  the 
Russian  snow-landscapes  had  spread  out  as  eternal, 
untraversable  steppes  —  steppes  and  steppes  and 
steppes  —  of  absolutely  colourless  despair;  in  Italy 
he  had  beheld  an  appalling  contrast  between  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  country  —  the  glory  of  its  scenery,  the 
melancholy  of  its  art  —  and  the  sorrows  of  the  af- 
flicted nation,  which,  as  in  a  haze  of  gold,  against  a 
background  of  sublime  ruins  and  shimmering  blue, 
along  rows  of  palaces  full  of  noble  treasures,  uttered 


234  THE  LATER  LIFE 

its  cry  of  hunger,  shook  its  threatening  fist,  because 
the  old  ground  brought  forth  not  another  olive,  not 
one,  after  the  excesses  of  the  past,  exhausted  by  the 
birth-pangs  of  the  untold  glories  of  old.  .  .  . 

His  mind,  schooled  in  book-lore,  also  read  life  it- 
self, learnt  to  know  it,  fathomed  it  with  a  glance. 
He  saw  the  world,  saw  its  wickedness,  its  selfishness, 
saw  especially  its  awful,  monstrous  hypocrisy.  Like 
so  many  leering,  grinning  masks,  with  treacherous 
honeyed  smiles,  contradicting  the  furtive  glances  of 
the  diabolical  eyes,  he  saw  the  powers  of  the  world 
above  the  world  itself:  a  huge  nightmare  of  com- 
pact distress,  the  greedy,  covetous,  grasping  fingers 
hidden  as  though  ready  to  clutch  at  the  folds  of  the 
majestic  purple,  ready  to  strike  like  vultures'  claws. 
And  he  saw  —  O  terrible  vision !  —  the  world  as  a 
helpless,  quivering  mass  lying  for  centuries  under 
that  eternal  menace.  He  saw  it  everywhere.  Then 
he  wanted  to  free  himself  with  a  gigantic  effort  from 
the  sphinx-like  domination  of  his  impotence,  with 
its  eternally  unseeing  eyes,  its  eternally  silent  lips,  its 
undivining  mind;  and  his  movement  was  as  that  of 
one  who  lies  crushed  under  granite,  the  granite  of 
that  omnipotent  sphinx  of  impotence,  who,  with  her 
eternal  immovability,  seemed  to  be  saying  nothing 
but  this: 

"  I  am  unchangeable,  eternally;  against  me  every- 
thing is  eternally  dashing  itself  to  pieces ;  against  me 
your  dreams  scatter  into  mist.  I  alone  am,  but  I  am 


THE  LATER  LIFE  235 

that  which  is  unchangeable:  human  impotence,  your 
own  impotence.  Lie  still  at  my  feet,  do  not  move : 
I  alone  am." 

That  was  the  vision  of  his  hopeless  eyes.  But 
desperation  drove  him  on,  wandering  ever  on  and  on 
to  other  lands,  to  other  capitals,  to  other  towns  black 
with  smoke :  the  smoke  through  which  nothing  shone, 
not  a  single  gleam  of  hope.  And  for  years  it  was 
the  same:  wandering,  seeking,  not  finding;  only  see- 
ing, knowing,  realizing.  But  the  more  he  saw,  knew 
and  realized,  the  more  terrible  it  was  to  him  that  he 
could  not  find  the  very  first  word  of  the  solution, 
the  more  terrible  it  became  to  him  that  only  the 
sphinx  remained,  the  immovable  granite  impotence; 
and  her  blank  gaze  seemed  to  utter  her  solitary  reve- 
lation : 

"  I  alone  am.  I  am  impotence ;  but  I  am  immov- 
able, I  am  omnipotent." 

Then  he  had  felt  in  himself  the  need  to  do  still 
more,  to  be  really  a  doer,  a  common  workman,  as 
they  all  were,  everywhere,  the  poor  and  wretched. 
And  he  went  to  America,  in  order  no  longer  to  think, 
read,  ponder,  dream,  see  or  know,  but  to  do  what 
they  were  all  doing,  the  poor  and  wretched.  And 
it  was  as  he  had  succeeded  in  telling  Constance  at 
last,  after  so  many  hesitations:  everything  that  was 
atavistic  in  him  had  prevented  him  from  becoming 
a  brother,  a  fellow-worker.  But  he  was  scarcely 
back  in  Europe  before  he  felt  the  air  around  him 


236  THE  LATER  LIFE 

full  of  noble  aims,  passionate  hopes;  and  Peace  had 
shone  before  his  eyes.  He  spoke;  and  his  words 
were  as  the  words  of  one  inspired;  and  everybody 
went  to  hear  him.  He  had  spoken  in  Holland;  he 
now  went  to  Germany  and  spoke  there.  He  wrote 
his  book  there :  Peace.  He  went  on  doing  and  mov- 
ing, until  he  was  laid  low  not  only  with  the  fatigue 
of  thinking  and  meditating,  but  also  with  the  strain 
of  constantly  travelling  hither  and  thither,  of  con- 
stantly appearing  in  overcrowded  halls,  of  speaking 
in  a  clear,  resonant  voice  to  thousands  of  people. 
For  a  moment  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was  doing 
something,  something  even  greater  and  better  than 
his  manual  labour  in  America  had  been.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  said  to  himself  that  he  had  found,  if  not 
everything,  at  least  something,  an  atom  of  absolute 
good,  and  that  he  was  imparting  that  atom  to  the 
world.  But  dull  discouragement  came  and  smote 
him,  as  well  as  physical  strain,  and  left  him  saying  to 
himself: 

"  They  cheer  and  applaud,  but  nothing  is  changed. 
Everything  remains  as  it  is,  as  if  I  had  never 
spoken." 

His  impatience  demanded  an  immediate  realiza- 
tion and  the  sight  of  the  ideal  flashing  across  the 
horizon.  And  then  he  lost  all  hope  even  for  the 
future,  for  the  brighter  ages  that  were  dawning. 
A  mocking  laugh,  a  sarcastic  word  in  a  report 
on  his  lectures  was  enough  to  shatter  him  for  weeks. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  237 

He  hid  himself  like  a  leper,  or  allowed  himself 
to  be  luxuriously  lapped  in  the  leafy  melancholy  of 
the  German  mountain-forests,  or  went,  farther  and 
higher,  into  the  Alps,  made  reckless  ascents,  just 
himself  and  a  guide,  as  though,  along  the  pure  world 
of  the  slippery  glaciers,  he  hoped  to  find  what  he 
had  sought  in  vain  in  the  Old  World  and  the  New, 
in  the  world  of  all  and  of  himself. 

Then  he  remained  for  weeks  lingering  on  in  a 
lonely  little  village  in  Switzerland,  high  up  among 
the  eternal  snows,  as  though  he  wished  to  purify 
himself  of  all  the  dust  of  his  humanity.  Merely 
through  breathing  the  exquisite  rareness  of  the  air, 
especially  at  night,  when  in  the  higher  heavens  the 
stars  shone  nearer  to  him,  twinkling  out  their  living 
rays,  it  seemed  as  if  the  pure  cold  were  cleansing 
him  to  his  marrow,  to  his  soul.  He  gazed  back  al- 
most peacefully  upon  his  life  as  a  man  of  thought 
and  action,  thought  and  action  being  two  things  in 
which  a  man  is  able  to  indulge  only  if  he  be  willing  to 
live,  for  others  and  for  himself.  If  anything  of  his 
thought,  of  his  action  remained  drifting  in  those 
lower  atmospheres  of  the  suffering  world,  he  was  cer- 
tain that  this  would  be  so  little,  so  infinitesimally 
small,  that  he  himself  did  not  perceive  it,  like  an 
atom  of  dust  floating  in  the  immensity  of  the  future. 
Perhaps  then  the  atom  would  prove  to  be  a  little 
grain  and,  as  such,  be  built  into  the  substance  of  the 
ideal.  But,  even  if  this  were  so,  his  thought  and 


238  THE  LATER  LIFE 

his  action  and  their  possible  results  seemed  to  him 
so  small,  so  slight  that  he  was  filled  with  humility. 
And  in  this  humility  there  was  a  pride  in  being  hum- 
ble; for  did  he  not  remember  all  the  complacency, 
the  dogmatism,  the  conviction,  the  assurance,  the 
self-consciousness,  all  the  pedantry  that  battened 
down  there  ? 

Amid  the  serenity  of  the  mountains,  as  he  sent  his 
gaze  roaming  over  the  frost-bound  horizons,  all 
within  him  became  pure  and  crystal-clear,  his  soul  a 
very  prism.  He  saw  its  colours  lying  there  plainly, 
shining,  glittering,  with  none  of  the  foulness  of  that 
lower  world.  And  these  weeks  were  weeks  of  the 
deepest  and  most  health-giving  rest  that  he  had  ever 
known. 

He  now  felt  very  lonely.  He  was  not  the  man  to 
give  himself  up  to  the  simple  enjoyment  of  this  heal- 
ing rest.  He  loved  best  to  feel  the  multitude  around 
him,  to  fling  out  his  strong  arms  wide  towards  hu- 
manity, feeling  his  most  ardent  and  happiest  glow 
when  embracing  humanity.  But,  after  his  discour- 
agements, he  seemed  to  have  thrust  it  gently,  though 
kindly,  a  little  farther  from  him,  had  abandoned  it, 
had  sequestered  himself,  in  order  to  recover  from 
himself  and  from  humanity  in  the  ample,  restful  si- 
lence of  utter  solitude.  He  now  felt  very  lonely. 
And  a  longing  awoke  in  him,  stirring  but  feebly  as 
yet,  for  love  to  come  towards  him  now,  because 
hitherto  love  had  always  gone  out  from  him,  eager 


THE  LATER  LIFE  239 

and  passionate;  a  longing  to  be  sought  himself,  for 
once  in  his  life ;  to  see  arms  opened  to  him  this  time, 
waiting  to  embrace  him,  to  press  him  to  a  loving 
heart.  ...  A  feeling  of  melancholy  softened  him, 
made  him  small  and  human,  while  the  mountain-wind 
swept  past  on  giant  wings.  .  .  . 

He  looked  back  upon  his  life.  That  was  one 
thing  which  it  had  never  known:  that  concentration 
of  all  feeling  on  an  individual.  With  him,  any 
whole-hearted  feeling  had  always  been  for  the  many. 
When  he  looked  back,  he  saw  spectres  wandering 
through  the  past :  the  individual,  the  unit,  just  a  faint 
blur  here  and  there;  he  had  never  felt  that  all-de- 
vouring passion  for  them,  the  individuals.  And  yet, 
as  a  child,  as  a  boy,  playing  his  dream-game  amid 
woods,  fields,  heather  and  stream,  for  whom  had  his 
longing  been?  To  find  all  of  them,  humanity,  or 
the  one  individual  soul?  He  did  not  know,  but  a 
dreamer  he  had  always  remained,  for  all  his  thinking 
and  doing.  And  now,  after  the  many  had  brought 
him  sorrow,  he  began  to  dream,  for  the  first  time, 
of  the  one  .  .  . 

Of  the  one  .  .  .  the  one  individual  soul  that 
would  open  wide  arms  to  him  and  approach  him  with 
a  loving  embrace  .  .  .  one  individual  soul.  .  .  . 
Had  his  quest  always  been  the  self-deception  of  im- 
potence and  was  it  possible  that  now  that  quest  had 
become  a  search  for  the  one  individual  soul?  Sud- 
denly, through  his  longing,  he  remembered  an  even- 


24o  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ing:  a  table  with  flowers  and  candles;  men  talking 
amid  the  smoke  of  their  cigars;  the  burly  figure  of  a 
fair-haired  officer;  and  some  strange  words  which 
that  officer  had  just  uttered  as  though  unconsciously, 
in  the  course  of  ordinary  conversation:  a  vision  call- 
ing up  early  years  of  childhood,  childish  play,  a  little 
girl,  fair,  with  red  flowers  at  her  temples,  dressed  in 
white,  running  barefoot  over  great  boulders  in  a  river 
full  of  rocks,  under  the  heavy  foliage  of  the  tropical 
trees,  and  beckoning,  beckoning  with  her  little  hand 
to  the  two  elder  brothers  who  were  playing  with  her, 
fascinated  by  their  little  sister.  .  .  . 

There,  in  that  room,  through  the  smoke  of  the 
cigars,  amid  the  hum  of  indifferent  talk,  in  three  or 
four  sentences,  no  more,  that  big,  fair-haired  man 
had  said  it,  said  it  just  casually,  with  a  softening  of 
his  rough,  noisy  voice : 

"  It  was  wonderful,  the  way  she  had  of  playing. 
She  would  run  over  the  rocks  and  pluck  the  flowers. 
Lord,  how  adorable  she  looked,  the  little  witch! 
And  we  boys  used  to  run  with  her,  run  after  her,  as 
far  as  ever  she  pleased.  She  only  had  to  beckon  to 
us  ...  the  damned,  adorable  little  witch!  " 

And  the  oath  sounded  like  a  caress;  and  the  whole 
thing  was  only  a  picture  lasting  two  or  three  seconds, 
no  more ;  and  then  they  returned  to  the  smell  of  coffee 
and  liqueurs,  the  cigar-smoke,  the  noisy  voice  grow- 
ing rough  again,  becoming  coarse  and  jovial  as  the 
burly,  fair-haired  soldier  told  some  mess-room  tale 


THE  LATER  LIFE  241 

immediately  afterwards,  after  that  reminiscence. 
But  in  him,  Brauws,  the  reminiscence  had  lingered, 
as  though  always  visible:  the  picture  shining  in  the 
tenderness  with  which  the  brother  had  spoken  of  his 
sister;  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  himself  had 
seen,  but  more  vaguely  and  dimly,  once  in  his  life,  on 
those  Dutch  horizons  of  his  childhood,  a  blur  like  that 
of  the  little  figure,  the  bright,  fair-faced  child,  even 
the  little  red  note  of  her  flowers.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  vague 
it  was,  how  visionary !  You  thought  of  it  ...  and 
it  had  gone,  all  of  it,  leaving  hardly  the  memory  of  a 
perfume,  nay,  hardly  the  reflection  of  a  memory  I 
Really,  it  was  nothing,  nothing,  too  airy  for  thought 
and  impossible  to  describe  in  words,  however  ten- 
derly chosen.  It  was  nothing:  if  he  thought  about 
it  for  more  than  the  one  second  that  the  reflection 
flashed  across  him,  it  was  gone,  quite  lost.  .  .  . 

He  was  feeling  very  lonely  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  to  think 
of  the  passing  years  with  their  millions  of  meetings, 
so  many  men  and  women  just  brushing  against  one 
another,  in  that  casual  passing,  just  looking  into  one 
another's  eyes,  with  the  indifferent  look  of  non- 
recognition,  and  then  passing  one  another  again, 
never  seeing  one  another  after!  .  .  .  And  perhaps 
among  them  the  one  had  passed,  her  eyes  looking 
indifferently  into  his  eyes,  a  bit  of  her  body  or  dress 
brushing  against  his  body  or  dress  .  .  .  and  she 
was  gone,  gone,  lost  altogether  forever.  Was  that 
how  it  had  happened  in  his  life?  Or  not?  Was 


242  THE  LATER  LIFE 

life  sometimes  merciful  at  the  eleventh  hour,  giving 
the  one,  the  individual  soul,  as  a  consolation,  as  a 
reward  for  that  love  for  the  many  ? 

Now  he  felt  quite  lonely,  he  who  was  a  dreamer 
as  well  as  a  thinker  and  a  man  of  action.  And  an 
irresistible  wish  to  be  no  longer  lonely  made  him 
come  down  suddenly  from  that  ring  of  glittering 
peaks.  There  was  nothing  waiting  for  him  in  Hol- 
land, nothing  to  draw  him  towards  those  low  lands 
of  his  birth,  into  the  swarm  of  utterly  indifferent 
people,  full  of  petty  insignificance,  save  alone,  per- 
haps, that  it  was  there  —  in  the  same  house  where 
the  vision  had  been  conjured  up  —  there  that  the 
soul  was  waiting,  there  that  the  one  individual  soul 
would  bide  his  coming. 

"  It  is  only  a  fancy,"  he  now  thought.  "  A 
fancy  ...  at  my  age !  No,  if  any  such  thing  had 
to  happen,  it  would  have  happened  in  the  years  of 
youth  in  which  we  have  the  right  to  feel,  to  dream, 
to  seek  ...  to  seek  for  the  one.  Now  that  so 
many  years,  silent,  dead  years,  lie  heaped  up  around 
her  and  around  me  .  .  .  and  between  us,  now  it  be- 
comes absurd  to  feel,  to  dream,  to  seek  those  sweet 
solaces  which  we  feel,  dream  and  seek  only  when 
we  are  very  young,  but  not  when  we  have  lost  even 
our  right  to  the  remembrance  of  our  youth,  the  re- 
flection of  our  childish  memories.  .  .  ." 

Still  he  came  down  from  the  mountains.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  not  until  he  was  standing  in  front  of  her,  at 
the  Hague,  that  he  knew,  in  his  innermost  soul,  that 
he  had  come  back  to  Holland  because  of  her  and  of 
her  alone.  It  struck  him  at  once  that  her  eyes  were 
brighter,  her  movements  younger,  that  her  voice 
sounded  clearer. 

"I  have  read  your  book!"  was  the  first  thing 
that  she  said  to  him,  radiantly. 

"  Well?  "  he  asked,  while  his  deep,  almost  sombre 
eyes  laughed  in  his  rough,  bronzed  face. 

She  would  not  tell  him  that  the  book,  Peace, 
written  in  his  clear,  luminous  style,  prophesying  in 
ringing  tones  the  great  watchword  of  the  future,  had 
consoled  her  for  his  three  months'  absence.  She 
managed  to  speak  of  it  in  terms  of  quiet  apprecia- 
tion, betraying  no  sign  of  her  enthusiasm  except  by 
an  added  brightness  in  her  eyes  and  a  curious  lilt  in 
her  voice,  with  its  echo  of  summer  and  of  carolling 
birds.  The  book  was  a  great  success,  written  as  it 
were  in  one  breath,  as  though  he  had  uttered  it  in  a 
single  sentence  of  quiet  knowledge,  warning  them 
of  the  coming  changes  in  the  world;  in  a  single  sen- 
tence of  quiet  consolation,  foretelling  its  future  des- 
tinies. There  was  in  his  words,  in  that  one  long 
sentence  of  prophetic  consolation,  an  irresistible 

243 


244  THE  LATER  LIFE 

sweetness,  a  magic  charm  which  affected  for  a  mo- 
ment even  the  most  sceptical  of  his  readers,  even 
though  they  scoffed  at  it  immediately  afterwards; 
something  wonderful,  inspired  .  .  .  and  so  simple 
that  the  word  was  spoken  almost  without  art,  only 
with  a  note  that  sounded  strangely  clear,  as  though 
echoing  from  some  higher  plane.  He  had  thought 
out  the  book  during  his  lecturing-period  in  Holland 
and  Germany;  he  had  written  it  up  there,  high  up  in 
the  Alps,  with  his  eyes  roaming  over  the  ice-bound 
horizons;  and  it  had  often  seemed  to  him  as  if 
Peace  were  waving  her  argent  banners  in  the  pure 
air,  her  joyous  processions  descending  from  the 
eternal  snows  of  the  upper  air  to  the  pollution  of 
the  lower,  to  trumpet  forth  with  blithe  clarions  the 
holy  tidings,  the  fair,  unfaltering  prophecy.  .  .  . 
The  book  had  comforted  her ;  she  had  read  it  in  the 
Woods,  on  the  dunes,  by  the  sea;  and,  in  the  warm 
summer  air,  with  its  tang  of  salt,  she  had  sat  with  the 
book  in  her  hands  and  felt  him  with  her,  though  ab- 
sent. .  .  .  She  knew  the  sentences  by  heart;  but 
she  tempered  her  enthusiasm,  lest  she  should  betray 
herself.  And,  when  she  had  spoken  of  the  book 
and  was  silent  for  a  moment,  he  said: 

"And  now  tell  me  about  yourself!  What  have 
you  been  doing  all  these  months?  " 

"  What  have  I  been  doing?  .  .  ." 

1  Yes.  You  must  have  done  something  besides 
reading  my  Peace!  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  245 

She  almost  blushed;  and  a  thrill  went  through  her, 
that  catch  at  her  throat  and  grip  at  her  heart  which 
his  step,  his  voice,  his  glance  could  still  always  give 
her;  and  she  was  not  able  to  answer  at  once.  Yes, 
really  she  had  done  nothing  that  summer  except  read 
his  Peace!  So  it  seemed  to  her  for  a  moment. 
But,  when  she  recovered  from  that  sudden  wave  of 
emotion,  she  reflected  that  it  was  not  so;  that  she 
had  read  other  things ;  that  she  had  dreamt,  had 
thought;  that  she  had  lived!  It  was  very  strange, 
but  she  reflected  .  .  .  that  she  had  lived ! 

It  was  as  though  both  of  them  had  much  to  say 
to  each  other  and  yet  did  not  know  how  to  say  it. 
Van  der  Welcke  was  not  at  home;  and  they  talked 
together  for  a  long  time  of  indifferent  things.  He 
felt  all  the  while  that  a  vague  question  was  rising 
to  his  lips,  a  question  hardly  formulated  even  in 
his  mind.  He  longed  to  ask  her  something,  such  a 
question  as  a  brother's  tenderness  might  have 
prompted,  to  which  she  would  answer  with  a  sister's 
ready  sympathy.  But  he  did  not  know  how  to 
speak;  and  so  he  buried  within  himself  that  strange 
bright  tenderness  which  longed  to  give  itself  expres- 
sion, to  ask  its  questions;  and  he  locked  himself  up 
in  his  deep,  mournful  seriousness,  the  sombreness  of 
a  middle-aged  man.  She  also,  opposite  him,  was 
the  same,  sat  and  spoke  like  a  middle-aged  woman; 
he  remarked  the  soft  grey  of  her  curling  hair;  and 
both  of  them,  serious,  almost  indifferent,  talked 


246  THE  LATER  LIFE 

quietly,  if  sympathetically,  of  casual  things  .  .  .  And 
yet  he  felt  that,  deep  down  in  herself,  she  was 
changed.  She  had  never  looked  like  that  before, 
never  spoken  so  clearly,  with  such  young  and  lively 
gestures.  He  noticed  that  she  had  been  reading, 
that  she  had  read  other  books  than  his  Peace;  and, 
when  he  told  her  of  the  world  of  misery  which  he 
had  seen  quite  lately  in  Germany,  she  replied  in  a 
tone  of  compassion  which  struck  him,  because  it 
was  no  more  the  shuddering  pity  of  a  woman  of  the 
world  for  the  misery  that  swarms  far  beneath  her 
like  vermin,  but  true  compassion,  the  welling  up 
of  a  new  and  generous  youth  in  her  soul,  an 
enthusiasm  now  experienced  for  the  very  first  time. 
How  sincerely  her  answer  rang,  how  fervent  were 
the  words  in  which  she  uttered  it  I  He  was  aston- 
ished and  told  her  so,  told  her  that  he  would  never 
have  suspected  such  sincerity,  such  fervour,  such 
capacity  for  pity  in  a  woman  of  her  caste.  But  she 
defended  her  caste,  especially  because  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  too  exuberant  in  her  new  youth  and  new 
life  and  was  perpetually  suppressing  herself.  And 
so  now,  to  hide  her  feelings,  she  defended  her  caste : 
did  he  not  think  that  there  were  others  who  had  the 
power  of  feeling  as  she  did  for  the  misery  of  the 
world,  women  like  herself,  women  of  her  caste,  not 
merely  those  who  perform  their  perfunctory  little 
works  of  charity,  but  other  women  who  welcome  the 
new  ideas  and  above  all  the  new  sentiments  of  uni- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  247 

versal  brotherhood,  women  who  will  perhaps  stamp 
them  on  their  coming  children,  are  already  implant- 
ing them,  germ  by  germ,  so  that  later,  soon  indeed, 
they  will  bear  a  new  generation  whose  lives  will  be 
based  on  those  sentiments  of  brotherhood?  He 
was  surprised  at  what  she  said,  but  he  brushed  it 
aside  with  a  rough  gesture,  while  a  glance  of  hatred 
flashed  from  his  sombre,  brooding  eyes,  deep-set  in 
his  rough  face  —  a  glance  that  was  sometimes  an- 
guished as  though  with  pain  — >  and  he  said  to  her 
that  this  was  not  true,  that  it  could  not  be,  that  her 
whole  caste  was  nothing  but  egoism,  nothing  but 
hypocrisy,  vast  and  monstrous,  its  hypocrisy  perhaps 
even  more  colossal  than  its  egoism,  and  that  he  was 
surprised  at  himself  for  having  any  friendly  feeling 
towards  her,  a  woman  of  her  caste.  A  rough  can- 
dour made  his  voice  sound  harsh.  But  she  was  not 
offended  by  it;  she  listened  to  him  although  out  of 
his  rough  words  there  came  a  gust  which  seemed 
likely  to  overthrow  all  that  she  had  long  looked  upon 
as  cultured,  correct,  respectable,  irreproachable, 
moral  and  aristocratic.  It  was  as  though  her  read- 
ing, like  a  breeze  from  the  sea  or  the  dunes,  had 
suddenly  removed  and  blown  away  from  her  all  the 
pettiness,  the  miserable  distortion  of  the  dwarf 
plant  with  its  aping  of  greatness;  all  the  everlasting 
strife  of  opinions,  interests  and  prejudices  waged  in 
and  around  all  those  creatures  of  the  world,  the 
women  of  her  set.  He  noticed  it,  with  a  thrill  of 


248  THE  LATER  LIFE 

happiness;  and  he  knew  that  they  understood  each 
other.  There  had  sprung  up  between  them  the  com- 
mon understanding,  the  common  discussion  of  things 
that  are  never  discussed  in  current  conversation. 

And,  because  of  his  happiness,  he  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  even  though  it  was  late  in  the  day,  even 
though  it  was  too  late.  He  had  never  known  a 
love  like  that;  he  felt  it  now  for  the  first,  the  very 
first  time,  that  wave  of  exultant,  smiling  happiness, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  felt  it  like  a  shadow,  a  grief, 
a  regret  for  what  might  have  been.  She  had  not 
yet  felt  it  like  that,  a  regret  for  what  might  have 
been,  because  she  was  living  again,  because  she  was 
living  for  the  first  time,  late  but  not  too  late,  since 
she  was  living  at  last  in  a  real,  intense,  pulsating 
life;  but  to  him,  the  man  who  had  lived  but  only 
never  loved,  it  came  at  once,  came  as  regret  for  what 
might  have  been.  .  .  . 

And  his  love  seemed  never  likely  to  become  any- 
thing else  than  just  that :  regret.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  these  days,  when  Constance  felt  herself  becoming 
so  strangely  young  and  alive  —  she  who  for  so  long 
believed  that  she  had  never,  never  lived  —  she  was 
compelled  to  step  outside  that  life  dominated  purely 
by  feeling.  Van  Vreeswijck  came  to  her  one  evening 
and  sat  talking  for  hours.  She  liked  him;  she  val- 
ued him  as  a  good  friend  who,  notwithstanding  that 
he  really  belonged  to  the  most  insufferable  section 
of  the  Court  set,  had  shown  that  he  was  not  too 
much  afraid  of  degrading  himself  by  associating  with 
Van  der  Welcke,  with  her  or  even  with  Brauws, 
though  he  loudly  and  sweepingly  condemned  Brauws' 
views.  She,  in  her  new  pride  of  life,  looked  down 
upon  him,  with  a  kindly  contempt,  as  one  of  the  little 
people  in  the  narrow  little  circle,  a  humming-top 
spinning  around  itself  and  around  other  humming- 
tops,  just  another  figure  in  the  merry-go-round  which 
they  represented  to  her,  all  of  them;  but  she  valued 
his  unaffected  friendship  and,  though  she  thought 
him  anything  but  a  great  soul,  she  did  not  think  him 
a  base  or  evil  soul.  And  so  she  spoke  to  him  sym- 
pathetically that  evening  and  promised  to  help  him. 

She  promised;  and  yet  it  was  exceedingly  difficult. 
A  new  honesty  had  sprung  up  in  her,  making  her 
hesitate  to  whom  to  turn  first  She  had  meant  to 

249 


25Q  THE  LATER  LIFE 

speak  to  Van  der  Welcke  the  next  morning,  in  quite 
an  ordinary  way.  But,  when  she  saw  him  for  a 
moment  before  he  went  out,  he  seemed  to  her  to  be 
suppressing  some  secret  grief  deep  down  in  himself : 
his  blue  boyish  eyes  were  overcast,  his  mouth  half- 
sulking,  as  on  rainy  days  when  he  was  not  able  to  go 
cycling;  and  yet  it  was  fine  now,  a  fine  autumn  day, 
and  he  came  down  in  his  cycling-suit,  fetched  his 
bicycle,  said  that  he  was  going  a  long  way,  that  he 
would  perhaps  not  be  back  for  lunch.  She  suspected 
in  him  a  craving  to  get  away,  as  fast  as  possible  and 
as  far  as  possible,  and  to  deaden  with  that  wild  speed 
the  pain  of  his  gnawing  grief.  But,  in  the  soft 
glow  of  her  new  youth,  which  illuminated  everything 
within  her  and  around  her,  she  had  not  the  heart  to 
tell  him  what  she  was  going  to  do,  what  she  had 
promised  to  do,  though  in  her  secret  self  she  thought 
it  dishonest  not  to  tell  him  straight  out.  So  she 
said  nothing,  let  him  go.  She  looked  after  him  for 
a  moment,  watched  the  angry  curve  of  his  shoulders, 
as  he  pedalled  desperately,  in  his  mad  craving  to  get 
away,  far  away. 

She  sighed,  felt  sorry  for  him,  she  no  longer  knew 
why  or  wherefore  .  .  .  But  she  had  promised  Van 
Vreeswijck;  and  perhaps,  she  thought,  it  would  be 
best  so.  She  went  out  therefore,  took  the  tram  to 
the  Bezuidenhout,  rang  at  Bertha's  door,  found  her 
at  home.  In  the  hall,  the  removers'  men  were  busy 
packing  china  and  glass  in  big  cases.  Louise  and 


THE  LATER  LIFE  251 

Frans  were  going  from  room  to  room  with  a  list  in 
their  hands,  making  notes  of  the  furniture  which 
Mamma  would  want  at  Baarn.  The  little  villa  had 
been  taken, 

Constance  found  Bertha  upstairs  in  Van  Naghel's 
study.  She  was  sitting  at  an  open  window  in  the 
large  room  with  its  dark,  heavy  furniture,  gazing 
into  the  garden,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  She 
seemed  calmer  than  she  had  been  the  other  evening, 
at  Mamma's.  She  sat  there  in  her  black  dress,  her 
face  old  and  drawn,  but  calmer  now;  and  her  eyes 
never  left  the  garden,  a  town  garden  full  of  rose- 
trees  and  fragrant  in  the  late  summer  air.  But  all 
around  her  the  room  was  gloomy  and  deadly  and 
desolate.  The  book-cases  were  empty:  the  books 
had  been  taken  out  and  divided  among  the  boys. 
Only  the  large  bronze  inkstand  remained  on  the 
writing-table.  The  furniture  stood  stiff,  formal, 
stripped,  unused,  lifeless,  as  though  awaiting  the  day 
of  the  sale.  The  bare  walls  showed  the  marks  of 
the  etchings  and  family-portraits  that  had  been  taken 
down. 

Bertha  rose  when  Constance  entered;  she  kissed 
her  and  sat  down  again  at  once,  sinking  into  her  chair 
and  folding  her  hands  in  her  lap.  And  Constance 
asked  if  she  could  have  a  moment's  serious  conversa- 
tion with  her.  A  shade  of  weariness  passed  over 
Bertha's  face,  as  if  to  convey  that  she  had  had  so 
many  serious  conversations  lately  and  would  rather 


252  THE  LATER  LIFE 

go  on  gazing  into  the  garden.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
almost  sorrowfully  from  the  riot  of  roses,  turned 
them  on  Constance,  asked  what  it  was  about.  And 
Constance  began  to  tell  her:  Van  Vreeswijck  had 
been  with  her  for  a  long  time  the  evening  before 
and  had  told  her  that  he  had  loved  Marianne  for  so 
long,  so  long  .  .  . 

Bertha  was  interested  for  a  moment,  seemed  to 
wake  from  a  dream: 

'Van  Vreeswijck?"  she  asked. 

Constance  went  on.  He  had  never  said  a  word 
to  Marianne,  because  he  feared,  was  almost  certain, 
indeed,  that  she  did  not  care  for  him.  Had  it  not 
been  mentioned  that  they  were  moving  to  Baarn,  he 
would  perhaps  not  have  ventured  to  speak  even  now. 
But  this  threatened  change  had  suddenly  compelled 
him  to  open  his  heart  ...  to  her,  to  Constance. 
And  he  had  begged  Constance  to  ask  Bertha,  to  ask 
Marianne  herself  if  he  might  hope  .  .  .  perhaps 
later  .  .  . 

"  Van  Vreeswijck?  "  Bertha  repeated. 

Two  months  ago,  though  she  had  never  been  a 
match-making  mother,  she  would  have  welcomed  this 
proposal,  would  have  rejoiced  at  it:  Van  Vreeswijck 
was  a  man  of  good  family,  belonged  to  their  own 
circle  and  to  the  Court  set,  had  a  little  money;  not 
very  young,  perhaps,  but  a  good-looking,  pleasant, 
well-bred  fellow.  But  now  she  did  not  know, 
showed  little  or  no  interest  after  that  momen- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  253 

tary  flicker  and  went  on  dully,  with  her  hands  lying 
motionless  on  her  black  dress: 

"  Well,  I  have  nothing  against  it,  Constance.  If 
Marianne  likes  the  idea,  I  do  too." 

Her  voice  sounded  as  if  she  were  withdrawing 
herself  from  everything,  including  her  children's  in- 
terests. She  sat  there,  just  blankly  staring,  leaving 
everything  to  them.  Louise  and  Frans  went  through 
the  house  looking  out  the  furniture  for  which  there 
would  be  room  at  Baarn.  Constance  heard  their 
voices  on  the  stairs: 

"  So,"  Louise  was  saying,  "  we  have,  in  addition 
to  the  furniture  in  Mamma's  bedroom,  in  Marianne's 
and  mine,  enough  for  one  spare-room;  then  there's 
the  piano,  from  the  drawing-room,  and  the  china- 
cabinet  .  .  ." 

"  Isn't  the  china-cabinet  ever  so  much  too  big  .  .  . 
for  those  small  rooms  down  there?" 

"  Yes,  perhaps  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  had  better  leave 
the  china-cabinet  .  .  ." 

Bertha  heard  as  well  as  Constance:  perhaps 
Louise  and  Frans  were  speaking  loudly  in  the  pas- 
sage on  purpose.  Bertha,  however,  did  not  stir :  her 
eyes  remained  vague,  her  hands  lifeless.  It  was 
obviously  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  her 
whether  they  took  the  china-cabinet  with  them  or 
not  .  .  . 

And,  as  she  did  not  speak  at  all,  Constance  was 
obliged  to  ask: 


254  THE  LATER  LIFE 

;t  Would  you  mind,  Bertha,  if  I  just  spoke  to 
Marianne?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bertha,   "  do." 

"Now?     Here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bertha. 

Constance  rose,  opened  the  door. 

"  So  that's  two  more  tables  .  .  .  two  sofas," 
Frans  counted,  making  notes  on  his  list. 

"  Louise,"  said  Constance,  at  the  door,  "  would 
you  ask  Marianne  to  come  here  a  moment?" 

She  sat  down  again  by  her  sister,  affectionately, 
took  her  hand,  brimming  over  with  pity  for  the  tired 
woman  whom  she  had  always  looked  upon  as  an 
ever  capable,  busy  woman  of  the  world,  now  ex- 
hausted with  all  the  thousand  cares  of  her  life  and 
smitten  by  the  sudden  blow  that  had  befallen  her. 
And  Constance'  heart  beat  anxiously  in  dread  of 
what  was  coming:  she  trembled,  felt  her  eyes  become 
wet  .  .  . 

Marianne  entered,  pale,  almost  diaphanous;  and 
her  black  blouse  made  her  look  a  frail  little  figure 
of  mourning,  slender  and  drooping.  For  the  thing 
which  she  could  not  conceal  in  her  innermost  self 
was  no  longer  a  light  shining  from  her,  visible  to 
all:  it  was  now  a  cloud  around  her,  still  visible,  but 
as  a  shadow  of  grief,  whereas  but  lately  it  had  been 
a  glow  of  happiness.  Constance  at  once  drew  her 
to  her,  kissed  her,  held  her  to  her.  And  she  could 
not  find  words.  Bertha  did  not  speak. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  255 

"  Marianne  .  .  ."  Constance  began. 

"Are  you  angry,  Aunt  Constance?" 

"  No,  darling,  why  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  you  are  angry  with  me." 

"Why,  Marianne!" 

"  Yes,  you  are  different.  I  have  seen  it  for  some 
time;  there's  something,  I  know  .  .  ." 

It  was  no  longer  the  joyous,  playful,  almost  mis- 
chievous voice  in  which  she  had  said  this  before. 
It  now  sounded  rather  like  a  cry  of  fear,  because  it, 
"  that,"  seemed  so  obvious  that  every  one  was 
bound  to  see  it,  that  Aunt  Constance  herself  must 
needs  see  it  ...  and  be  angry. 

"  Really,  Marianne,  I  am  not  angry.  But  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  alone  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  then  you  are  angry!  "  she  said,  passionately, 
almost  hiding  herself  in  Constance'  arms.  "  Don't 
be  angry!  "  she  said,  almost  entreatingly.  "  Do  tell 
me  that  you  will  try  .  .  .  not  to  be  angry  with  me !  " 

She  betrayed  herself  almost  entirely,  incapable  of 
keeping  back  that  which  had  once  shone  from  her 
and  which  now  nearly  threatened  to  sob  itself  from 
her.  Constance  could  find  no  words. 

;'  We  shall  soon  be  going  away,  Auntie !  "  said 
Marianne,  her  features  wrung  with  grief.  "  And 
then  you  will  not  see  me  any  more  .  .  .  and  then 
.  .  .  then  perhaps  you  will  never  have  any  reason 
to  be  angry  with  me  again  .  .  ." 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  gave  a  sob,  an  irresisti- 


256  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ble  sob,  jarring  every  nerve  with  a  shock  that  seemed 
to  leave  her  rigid.  She  shut  her  eyes,  buried  her 
face  in  Constance'  shoulder  and  remained  lying  like 
this,  after  that  one  convulsive  sob,  motionless,  pale, 
as  though  she  were  dying,  as  though  devastated  with 
sorrow.  Bertha,  opposite  her,  stared  at  her 
vaguely,  with  her  hands  lying  helplessly  on  her  black 
dress. 

And  Constance  could  find  no  words.  Time  after 
time  she  thought  of  mentioning  Van  Vreeswijck's 
name,  time  after  time  the  name  died  away  on  her 
lips.  She  gently  urged  Marianne  to  control  herself, 
assuring  her  that  she  was  not  angry,  had  never  been 
angry.  And  for  a  moment,  thinking  of  herself,  she 
felt  afraid. 

If  love  could  be  now  gladness  and  now  mourning, 
as  it  had  been  and  was  in  this  suffering,  love-stricken 
child,  should  it  not  be  the  same  with  her  —  that 
gladness  and  oh,  perhaps  later,  O  God,  that  mourn- 
ing !  —  with  her,  the  middle-aged  woman,  who  felt 
herself  growing  younger  and  a  new  life  coursing 
through  her:  at  first,  in  the  soft  spring  flush  of  a 
girl's  dreams;  now  in  the  summer  glory  of  a  woman's 
—  a  young  woman's  —  love?  But  there  was  a  mir- 
ror opposite  her;  and  she  saw  Marianne  grief- 
smitten,  shaken  with  sobs  .  .  .  and  in  herself  she 
saw  nothing!  She  seemed  to  have  the  power  to 
hide  her  happiness  in  her  secret  self:  her  agony  —  O 
God !  —  she  would  also  hide  later  in  her  secret 


THE  LATER  LIFE  257 

self.  She  saw  nothing  in  herself.  And  she  knew 
that  nobody  saw  it  in  her.  It  remained  secretly, 
mysteriously  hidden.  Adolphine,  Cateau,  the  Ruy- 
venaers,  all  of  them  talked  about  her  husband  and 
Marianne:  she  knew  it;  but  she  also  knew  that  they 
never  talked  about  herself  and  Brauws  .  .  .  though 
she  had  now  known  him  for  months,  though  he  was 
the  friend  of  the  house  and  came  to  their  house  al- 
most daily.  He  was  a  friend  of  Van  der  Welcke's, 
he  was  a  friend  of  the  house  and  a  very  well-known 
man;  and  that  was  all.  It  was  not  visible  to  any- 
body, to  anybody  .  .  . 

Oh,  was  it  not  strange?  That  this  same  feeling, 
which  she  bore  in  her  innermost  self,  unseen  by  any, 
should  shine  within  her  as  a  sun,  while  with 
Marianne  it  had  shone  out,  for  all  the  world  to  see, 
as  an  illicit  joy  .  .  .  and  was  now  streaming  forth 
from  her,  in  a  convulsive  sob,  as  an  illicit  sorrow. 
What  she,  the  woman,  hid  within  her  the  child  could 
not  hide  within  her,  as  though  her  soul  were  too 
slight  for  it,  so  slight  that  it  had  glowed  through 
her  soul  as  through  alabaster  and  now  flowed  from 
it  as  from  alabaster  .  .  .  Oh,  was  it  not  strange, 
was  it  not  strange?  After  all,  she  did  not  hide  it 
intentionally,  for  she,  the  middle-aged  woman  had 
never,  in  her  new  young  life,  thought  of  the  people 
outside  ...  in  connection  with  her  reviving  youth ! 
But  it  was  so,  it  was  so,  beyond  a  doubt  .  .  .  And 
it  made  her  feel  strong:  it  seemed  to  her  a  grace 


258  THE  LATER  LIFE 

that  had  been  accorded  her,  this  power  to  live  and 
go  on  living  a  new  life  deep  in  her  secret  self,  in- 
visible to  the  people  outside,  this  power  to  live  and 
love  .  .  . 

She  felt  grateful:  something  sang  in  her  like  a 
hymn  of  thanksgiving;  but  she  was  filled  with  com- 
passion for  Marianne.  The  girl,  despite  Constance' 
cheering  words,  still  lay  motionless  against  her 
shoulder,  with  closed  eyes,  as  though  dead.  Con- 
stance now  gently  forced  her  to  rise,  led  her  away 
without  a  word  .  .  .  while  Bertha  remained  sitting, 
just  followed  them  both  with  her  dull,  indifferent 
eyes,  then  looked  out  at  the  roses  in  the  garden,  her 
hands  lying  helplessly  in  her  black  lap. 

Constance  opened  the  door,  led  the  girl  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  carpet  had  been  taken  up,  the 
curtains  taken  down;  the  furniture  stood  cold  and 
lifeless  on  the  bare  boards. 

"Marianne,  darling,  do  listen  to  me  now!" 
Constance  forced  herself  to  say,  in  a  firmer  voice. 
"  I  am  not  angry  and  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  .  .  . 
and  I  have  something  to  ask  you  .  .  .  But  first  tell 
me :  do  you  believe  that  I  care  for  you  and  that  any- 
thing I  say  and  ask  comes  from  nothing  but  my 
love  for  you?  " 

Marianne  opened  her  eyes : 

"  Yes,  Auntie." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Constance,  "  Van  Vrees- 
wijck  .  .  /' 


THE  LATER  LIFE  259 

But  Marianne  suddenly  drew  herself  up  where 
they  were  sitting  —  she  with  Constance'  arms  around 
her  —  nervous,  terrified,  at  once  knowing,  under- 
standing: 

"No,  Auntie,  no!"  she  almost  screamed. 

"Marianne!  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Auntie,  oh,  no,  no,  no !  I  can't  do  it,  I 
can't  do  it!  " 

And  she  threw  herself  back,  sobbed  out  her 
words,  as  though  she  no  longer  dared  fling  herself 
into  Constance'  arms. 

"  Marianne,  he  is  very  fond  of  you  .  .  .  and  he 
is  such  a  good  fellow.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  no,  no,  no !  ...  No,  no,  Auntie, 
no!  ...  I  can't  do  it!  " 

Constance  was  silent.     Then  she  said: 

"  So,  it's  no,  darling?  " 

"  No,  Auntie,  no,  no !  ...  I  don't  care  for  him, 
I  can  never,  never  care  for  him!  Oh,  no,  no,  it 
is  cruel  of  you,  if  you  ask  that  of  me,  if  you  want 
to  force  me  into  it!  ...  I  don't  care  for  him  .  .  . 
There  is  ...  there  is  some  one  else  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent,  stared  before  her  like  a  mad- 
woman, with  the  same  fixed  stare  as  her  mother. 
And  suddenly  she  became  very  still,  accepting  her 
anguish,  and  said,  gently,  with  a  heart-rending  smile : 

"  No,  Auntie  ...  no.  I  would  rather  go  ... 
with  Mamma  and  Louise  ...  to  Baarn.  We  shall 
live  very  pleasantly  there  .  .  .  cosily,  the  three  of 


26o  THE  LATER  LIFE 

us  together  .  .  .  Marietje  will  join  us  later,  from 
her  boarding-school  .  .  .  Karel  .  .  ." 

She  tried  to  utter  just  a  word  of  interest  in  her 
mother,  sisters  and  brothers,  but  her  indifferent, 
dead  voice  belied  her.  There  was  nothing  in  her 
but  what  had  once  shone  from  her,  what  was  now 
trying  to  sob  from  her  .  .  . 

Constance  clasped  her  in  her  arms: 

"My  child!" 

"  No,  Auntie,  you  will  tell  him,  won't  you?  .  .  . 
Tell  him  that  I  am  sorry  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  but  that  I 
don't  care  for  him  ...  I  care  ...  I  care  for  some 
one  else  .  .  ." 

And  now,  without  speaking  a  word,  raising  her 
beseeching,  tear-filled  eyes  to  her  aunt's,  she  said  to 
Constance,  without  speaking  a  word,  told  her  only 
with  her  beseeching  glance,  told  her  that  she  loved 
.  .  .  that  she  loved  Uncle  Henri  .  .  .  and  that 
she  couldn't  help  it ;  that  she  knew  it  was  very  wrong 
of  her;  that  she  begged  her  aunt  to  forgive  her  and 
implored  her  please  not  to  be  angry;  that  she  en- 
treated only  to  be  allowed  to  suffer  and  sob  about 
it;  but  that  for  the  rest  she  hoped  for  nothing  more 
from  life,  nothing,  nothing;  that  she  would  go 
quietly  to  Baarn,  with  her  mother  and  sisters,  and 
try  to  manage  to  live  there  and  pine  away  silently  in 
her  grief  .  .  . 

And  Constance,  as  she  held  her  in  her  arms, 
thought : 


THE  LATER  LIFE  261 

"  Living  .  .  .  Living  .  .  .  This  child  .  .  .  this 
poor  child  ...  is  living  early;  and,  if  I  have  begun 
to  live  late  .  .  .  O  God,  O  God,  must  I  also  suffer 
as  she  is  doing  .  .  .  must  I  also  suffer  some  day 
.  .  .  soon,  perhaps  ...  if  one  cannot  have  life 
without  suffering?  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHEN  Constance  returned  home,  she  was  even  more 
troubled  than  she  had  been  in  the  morning  by  what 
she  called  her  dishonesty  towards  Van  der  Welcke. 
She  lunched  alone  with  Addie ;  Van  der  Welcke  did 
not  come  in,  was  evidently  trying  to  lose  himself  on 
his  bicycle  in  the  roads  outside  the  Hague  and  lunch- 
ing off  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer  at  a  country 
inn.  He  did  not  come  home  till  very  late,  tired  and 
dusty,  and  he  was  in  an  unbearable  mood,  as  though 
his  surfeit  of  movement  and  speed  and  space  had 
produced  nothing  but  an  evil  intoxication  and  not  the 
beneficent  anaesthesia  which  he  had  expected  of  it. 
Roughly,  as  though  dispirited  and  disgusted,  he  put 
away  his  machine,  without  bestowing  on  it  the  care 
which  he  usually  gave  to  it  after  a  long  ride,  angry 
with  the  lifeless  steel  which  had  not  consoled  him, 
which  had  not  shown  itself  a  friend  this  time.  It 
was  three  o'clock;  and  he  went  straight  to  his  room 
to  change  his  clothes. 

Constance,  in  her  drawing-room,  remained  uneasy. 
In  her  heart  there  was  a  deep  pity  for  Marianne; 
and  for  him  too  an  almost  motherly  pity,  which 
made  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  Oh,  when  she  had 
found  so  very  much  for  herself,  so  much  that  was 
broad  and  lofty,  radiant  and  lovely,  of  which  she 

262 


THE  LATER  LIFE  263 

asked  no  more  than  that  it  should  exist,  exist  in  soft 
radiance  within  herself,  a  mystic  sun,  a  glowing  mys- 
tery, invisible  to  all  but  her,  it  pained  her  that  those 
two,  Henri  and  Marianne,  could  find  nothing  for 
themselves  and  for  each  other!  .  .  .  She  listened 
anxiously  to  the  sounds  upstairs.  She  heard  his  foot- 
steps tramping  overhead,  heard  him  even  throwing 
his  clothes  about,  splashing  the  water  noisily,  almost 
breaking  the  jug  and  basin  in  his  savage  reckless- 
ness, his  violent  resentment  against  everything.  It 
all  reechoed  in  her;  she  kept  on  starting:  there  he 
was  flinging  his  boots  across  the  room;  bang  went 
the  door  of  his  wardrobe;  and,  when  he  had  finished, 
she  heard  him  go  to  his  den.  Everything  became 
still;  the  warmth  of  the  summer  afternoon  floated  in 
through  the  open  windows;  a  heat  mist  hung  over 
the  garden  of  the  little  villa ;  in  the  kitchen,  the  maid 
was  droning  out  a  sentimental  song,  in  a  dreary 
monotone  .  .  . 

Constance'  uneasiness  increased.  Yes,  she  must, 
she  must  tell  him  something:  she  almost  became 
frightened  at  the  idea  of  telling  him  nothing,  of 
concealing  from  him  entirely  that  Van  Vreeswijck 
had  asked  her  to  go  to  Marianne.  And  yet  nothing 
compelled  her  to  say  anything  to  Henri;  and  it 
would  perhaps  not  even,  she  thought,  be  fair  to  Van 
Vreeswijck.  She  did  not  know;  her  thoughts  ram- 
bled on  uneasily.  But  persistently,  as  though  from 
out  of  the  new,  fresh  youth  that  was  hers,  one  idea 


264  THE  LATER  LIFE 

obtruded  itself:  it  would  not  be  honest  to  tell  Henri 
nothing,  not  even  a  casual  word,  so  that  at  any  rate 
he  should  not  imagine,  if  he  came  to  hear  later,  that 
she  had  been  plotting  behind  his  back  .  .  . 

All  of  a  sudden,  the  anxiety,  the  uneasiness  became 
so  great  in  her  that  she  rose,  impulsively,  and  went 
upstairs.  The  servant  was  droning  sentimentally. 
Constance  quietly  opened  the  door  of  Henri's  little 
den.  He  was  sitting  in  a  chair,  with  his  arms 
hanging  down  beside  him;  he  was  not  even 
smoking. 

"  Am  I  disturbing  you?  "  she  asked.  "  I  should 
like  to  speak  to  you  for  a  moment  .  .  ." 

He  gave  her  a  sharp  look.  Usually,  when  she 
came  in  like  that,  it  meant  that  she  had  something 
to  reproach  him  with,  that  she  was  spoiling  for  a 
scene  .  .  .  about  a  trifle,  sometimes  about  nothing. 
She  would  come  in  then  with  the  same  words;  and 
her  voice  at  once  sounded  aggressive.  This  time, 
though  she  tried  to  speak  gently,  her  voice,  be- 
cause of  her  uneasiness  and  anxiety,  sounded  harsh 
and  discordant;  and  he,  with  his  irritated  nerves, 
seemed  to  hear  the  aggressive  note,  the  prelude  to  a 
scene.  It  was  as  though  his  nerves  at  once  became 
set,  as  though  he  were  pulling  himself  together  in 
self-defence : 

"  What  is  it  now?  "  he  asked,  roughly. 

She  sat  down,  outwardly  calm,  inwardly  trem- 
bling, anxious,  uneasy.  And  she  made  an  effort  to 


THE  LATER  LIFE  265 

clear  her  hoarse  voice  and  to  speak  calmly  ...  so 
that  he  might  know: 

"  Oh,"  she  began,  reflectively,  wishing  to  show 
him  at  once  that  she  had  not  come  to  make  re- 
proaches, that  she  did  not  wish  to  make  a  scene,  "  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  ...  to  ask  your  ad- 
vice .  .  ." 

Her  voice,  now  under  control,  sounded  soft,  as  she 
wished  it;  and  he  was  astonished  for  a  second,  just 
remembered,  almost  unconsciously,  that  she  had  not 
been  so  quick-tempered  lately,  that  in  fact  they  had 
not  had  a  scene  for  weeks.  Still  he  continued  sus- 
picious: she,  who  never  asked  his  advice!  And  he 
echoed : 

"  To  ask  my  advice?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  in  that  same  calm,  reflective 
tone,  with  a  certain  constraint,  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
—  what  do  you  think?  —  Vreeswijck  stayed  talking 
to  me  for  a  long  time  yesterday  evening  .  .  .  and 
he  wanted  absolutely  e  .  ." 

"Wanted  what?" 

She  saw  him  turn  pale;  his  eyes  blazed  angrily, 
as  though  sparks  were  flashing  from  that  vivid  blue, 
generally  so  young  and  boyish. 

"  He  would  so  much  like  ...  he  asked  me  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  get  the  words  out,  looked  at  him, 
afraid  of  his  eyes,  now  that  she  was  in  no  mood  for 
a  scene  of  mutual  recrimination.  But  she  could  not 
keep  silent  either: 


266  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  He  asked  me  ...  if  I  thought  .  .  .  that 
Marianne  .  .  ." 

She  saw  him  give  a  shiver.  He  understood  it 
all.  Nevertheless,  she  went  on: 

'*  That  Marianne  could  get  to  care  for  him  .  .  . 
He  asked  me  to  go  to  Bertha  .  .  .  and  ask 
her  .  .  ." 

"Van  Vreeswijck?  Marianne?"  he  repeated; 
and  his  eyes  were  almost  black.  "  Asked  you  .  .  . 
to  go  to  Bertha?  .  .  .  Well,  you're  not  mixing 
yourself  up  in  it,  are  you?  You're  not  going, 
surely?  " 

"I  went  this  morning,"  she  said;  and  her  voice 
once  more  sounded  discordant. 

He  seemed  to  hear  a  hostile  note  in  it.  And, 
unable  to  contain  himself,  he  flew  into  a  passion : 

"  You  went?  You  went  this  morning? "  he 
raved;  and  even  in  his  raving  she  saw  the  suffering. 
"  Why  need  you  mix  yourself  up  in  it  ?  What  busi- 
ness has  Van  Vreeswijck  to  come  asking  you?  .  .  . 
Van  Vreeswijck  ..." 

He  could  not  find  the  words.  All  that  he  could 
get  out  was  a  rough  word,  cruel,  hard  and  insult- 
ing: 

"  Plotting  and  scheming  ...  if  you  want  to  go 
plotting  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  flamed;  she  felt  his  intention  to  insult 
her.  But  his  suffering  was  so  obvious,  she  saw  him 
so  plainly  writhing  under  his  pain,  that  the  angry 


THE  LATER  LIFE  267 

tempest  died  down  at  once  and  she  merely  said,  very 
gently: 

"  She  has  refused  him." 

He  looked  at  her.  The  black  cloud  lifted  from 
his  eyes,  which  turned  blue  again,  and  his  gloomy 
frown  gave  way  to  his  usual  boyish  expression,  full 
of  wide-eyed  astonishment  now.  His  features  re- 
laxed, his  whole  body  relaxed;  he  gave  a  shiver  and 
sat  down,  as  though  all  his  temper  and  rage  were 
subsiding  like  a  sudden  storm  that  had  arisen  for 
no  reason  at  all.  And  he  asked,  slowly: 

"  She  .  .  .  has  refused  him?  " 

"  Yes.  Of  course,  Bertha  had  nothing  against 
it.  But  Marianne,  when  I  spoke  to  her,  declined  at 
once.  I  did  not  insist.  Poor  Vreeswijck!" 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow!  "  he  said,  mechanically. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  because  .  .  ." 

"  Because  what?  " 

"  Because  Vreeswijck  is  a  friend  and  I  thought 
it  better  that  you  should  know.  I  meant  to  tell  you 
this  morning,  before  I  started.  But  you  went 
out  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  with  a  keen  glance,  won- 
dering if  she  was  sincere  or  if  there  was  anything 
behind  her  words;  wondering  what  she  thought, 
knew  or  guessed  about  him  and  Marianne;  what  she 
would  really  have  liked;  if  it  was  a  disappointment 
to  her  that  Marianne  had  declined  so  promptly:  so 
promptly  that  Constance  had  not  insisted  for  a  mo- 


268  THE  LATER  LIFE 

merit.  But  she  was  so  calm  and  gentle,  as  she  stood 
leaning  against  his  table,  that  he  found  her  incom- 
prehensible and  was  only  conscious  of  breathing 
again  after  that  first  moment  when  it  had  seemed 
to  him  that  his  throat,  lungs,  chest  and  heart  were 
all  gripped  in  one  hideous  constriction. 

They  were  silent,  she  standing  there  and  he  look- 
ing at  her,  with  his  keen  glance.  A  heat  haze  hung 
over  the  garden;  the  heavy  summer  scent  floated  up 
to  them;  from  the  kitchen  came  the  monotonous 
voice  of  the  housemaid  droning  out  her  love-song. 
And  suddenly  a  sort  of  remorse  loomed  as  a  spectre 
before  Constance,  because  she  had  fettered  him  to 
her  life,  for  all  his  life,  years  ago;  because  she  had 
fettered  him  to  her  then  by  accepting  his  sacrifice 
and  that  of  his  parents  in  her  despair  and  helpless- 
ness, reviled  outcast  as  she  then  was.  It  flashed 
before  her:  the  recollection  of  that  day  when  he 
came  to  her  in  Florence,  when  he  made  his  gift  of 
himself  to  her,  made  it  despairingly,  feeling  even 
then  perhaps,  despite  the  forced  love-illusion  of  pas- 
sion, the  life-long  mistake  which  they  were  mutually 
making.  She  had  accepted  his  gift,  taken  his  youth; 
she  had  rendered  him  aimless,  him  and  his  life,  his 
career  and  his  happiness :  all  that  he  might  perhaps 
yet  have  found.  It  flashed  before  her  again:  the 
recollection  of  that  good-looking  boy,  the  way  he 
had  come  to  her  in  Florence  and  the  way  she  had 
taken  everything,  without  having  anything  to  give 


THE  LATER  LIFE  269 

him  in  exchange.  Oh,  how  the  past  oppressed  her 
now,  how  it  hung  round  her  shoulders,  crushing  her 
like  a  nightmare  that  was  not  to  be  shaken  off,  like 
the  embrace  of  some  leering  monster!  Oh,  the  re- 
morse, the  remorse  that  was  beginning  to  torture 
her! 

She  stared  before  her  as  she  stood  leaning  against 
the  table;  and  beads  of  perspiration  began  to  come 
out  on  her  forehead  in  the  small,  warm  room,  full 
of  summer  haze.  He  continued  to  look  at  her,  pene- 
tratingly. And  suddenly  he  heard  her  voice  speak 
his  name : 

11  Henri  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  answer,  thought  her  strange,  did  not 
recognize  her;  and  again  he  wondered  what  she 
thought,  guessed  or  knew  .  .  .  and  what  else  she 
wanted  to  say.  But  she,  while  a  sweat  of  fear  broke 
from  her,  made  a  great  inward  effort  to  release  her- 
self from  the  oppression  of  her  past  and  her  re- 
morse, to  be  once  more  the  woman  that  she  had 
become:  the  woman  young  again;  the  woman  whose 
life  was  beginning  for  the  first  tune;  the  woman 
who  thought,  dreamed  and  loved;  the  woman  in 
whom  nowadays  the  thoughts  and  dreams  sometimes 
darted  and  darted  like  multitudes  of  laughing  butter- 
fly fancies,  swiftly,  swiftly  in  front  of  them;  the 
woman  who  loved  so  deeply  that  she  floated  in 
ecstasy  as  in  the  mystic  sun  of  herself.  Did  she  not 
now  see  farther  than  the  usual  little  circle  which 


270  THE  LATER  LIFE 

had  bounded  her  vision  for  years:  the  little  circle  of 
the  little  prejudices,  the  little  moralities,  the  little 
follies ;  the  little  circle  in  which  all  the  others  —  her 
own  people,  people  like  herself,  the  small  people  — 
felt  happy  and  comfortable  with  their  little  philoso- 
phies, their  little  religions,  their  little  dogmas? 
Had  she  not,  for  weeks  and  months  past,  been  con- 
templating more  distant  prospects,  all  the  distant 
cities  of  light  on  the  horizons  above  which  sailed  the 
spacious  cloud-worlds  and  across  which  shot  the  re- 
vealing lightning-flashes?  In  the  love  which  she 
had  already  confessed  to  herself  so  honestly  that  it 
etherealized  into  sheer  ecstasy,  had  she  not  risen 
above  all  that  was  still  left  in  her  and  about  her  of 
prejudice  and  insincerity,  that  sneering  at  herself 
and  others,  with  all  the  rest  of  that  feeble  cynicism  ? 
If  she  wanted  to  live,  must  she  not  be  honest,  honest 
in  all  things  ?  Oh,  she  felt  —  in  these  thoughts 
which  rushed  through  her  mind  in  those  few  seconds 
while  she  leant  against  the  table,  her  forehead  be- 
dewed with  heat  and  excitement  —  that  she  was 
shaking  off  the  nightmare  of  the  past  and  that,  if  she 
felt  remorse,  she  must  also  try  to  give  back  what 
she  had  taken  .  .  .  and  what  had  never  belonged  to 
her,  because  it  had  never  been  her  right,  because  it 
had  never  been  her  happiness,  any  more  than  his, 
nor  her  life,  any  more  than  his  life!  No,  she  had 
grown  out  of  that  prejudice,  the  horror  of  making 
herself  ridiculous;  and  what  she  had  stolen  she 


THE  LATER  LIFE  271 

would  like  to  give  back  now  ...  in  so  far  as  was 
possible  to  her! 

"  Henri,"  she  repeated,  for  her  whole  thought 
had  rushed  through  her  in  those  two  or  three  sec- 
onds, "  there  is  something  more  I  want  to  say  to  you. 
I  should  like  to  talk  frankly  to  you.  Promise  me 
to  keep  calm;  and  do  not  let  us  lose  our  tempers. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  lose  our  tempers,  Henri,  in 
order  to  understand  each  other  at  last  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  lately,"  she 
continued,  turning  her  steady  eyes  towards  him.  "  I 
have  been  thinking  a  very  great  deal,  about  our  life, 
about  both  our  lives  .  .  .  and  about  the  mistake  we 
made  .  .  ." 

He  became  impatient: 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at  and  what  is 
it  all  about?"  he  asked,  with  an  irritable  shake  of 
his  shoulders. 

"  Come,  Henri,"  she  said,  gently,  "  let  us  talk  for 
once,  for  once  in  our  lives,  and  be  quite  frank  and 
serious.  Our  life  has  been  a  mistake.  And  the 
fault  .  .  ." 

"Is  mine,  I  suppose?"  he  broke  in,  angrily,  ag- 
gressively, working  himself  up  for  the  scene  which 
he  foresaw. 

She  looked  at  him  long  and  deeply  and  then  said, 
firmly: 

"  The  fault  is  mine." 


272  THE  LATER  LIFE 

He  remained  silent,  again  shook  his  shoulders, 
restlessly,  not  understanding  her,  not  recognizing  her 
at  all.  This  woman  was  now  a  stranger  to  him; 
and,  above  all,  her  calm  seriousness  confused  him : 
he  would  almost  have  preferred  that  she  should  fly 
out  at  him  and  have  done  with  it  and  tell  him  that 
he  had  no  business  to  go  bicycling  alone  with 
Marianne. 

But  she  did  not  do  this,  she  merely  repeated, 
calmly : 

"  The  fault  is  mine.  The  fault,  the  blame  is 
mine  alone,  Henri.  I  ought  not,  in  Florence,  to 
have  accepted  the  sacrifice  which  you  made  for  me, 
which  your  father  and  mother  made  for  me.  It 
was  my  fault  that  your  life  did  not  become  .  .  . 
what  it  might  have  been." 

Yes,  she  was  frank  and  calm:  he  had  to  admit 
that;  and  it  was  not  a  crafty  prelude  leading  up  to 
one  of  her  angry  scenes.  She  was  speaking  so 
quietly  and  gently;  her  voice  had  a  note  of  sorrowful 
humility  that  almost  touched  him. 

"  But  what  are  you  driving  at?  "  he  said,  never- 
theless, in  a  voice  that  was  still  nervous  and  jerky. 
"  You  are  very  frank  and  honest  in  looking  at 
things  like  that;  but  what  is  the  use  of  it  all  now? 
It  is  so  long  ago.  It  is  the  past.  And  it  was  my 
duty  then  to  make  up  for  the  wrong  which  I  had 
done  you." 

"  I  had  done  you  quite  as  great  a  wrong,  Henri, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  273 

I  should  not  have  accepted  your  sacrifice.  I  ought 
not  to  have  become  your  wife." 

"  But  what  would  you  have  done  then?  " 

"  I  should  have  gone  away,  somewhere  or  other. 
If  I  had  been  then  the  woman  that  I  am  now,  I 
should  have  gone  away,  somewhere  or  other.  And 
I  should  have  left  you  to  your  life  .  .  .  and  to  the 
happiness  that  was  perhaps  awaiting  you  else- 
where .  .  ." 

"  I  should  have  had  to  give  up  the  service  just 
the  same  .  .  ." 

"  But  you  would  have  been  freer  without  me. 
You  were  still  so  young :  you  had  your  whole  life  be- 
fore you;  and  you  would  perhaps  have  found  your 
happiness.  As  it  is,  you  have  never  found  it  ... 
or  ...  perhaps  too  late." 

He  stood  up,  very  restless  and  nervous,  and  his 
boyish  eyes  pleaded  anxiously: 

"  Constance,  I  can't  talk  in  this  way.  I'm  not 
used  to  it  .  .  ." 

"  Can't  you  face  things  seriously  for  a  mo- 
ment? .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  can't.  It  upsets  me.  I  don't  know:  you 
mean  to  be  nice,  I  believe,  but  please  don't  let 
us  talk  like  this.  We're  not  accustomed  to  it.  And 
I  ...  I  can't  do  it.  You  can  see  for  yourself,  it 
upsets  me." 

"  Come,"  she  said,  in  a  motherly  tone,  "  you 
are  not  so  much  upset  as  all  that.  You  can  have  a 


274  THE  LATER  LIFE 

bicycle-ride  afterwards  and  you  will  feel  better. 
But  first  let  us  talk  seriously  for  a  moment  .  .  ." 

He  sighed,  sank  into  his  chair,  submitted  to  her 
stronger  will.  If  only  she  had  flown  out  at  him,  he 
would  have  stormed  back  at  her;  but  she  was  say- 
ing such  strange  things,  the  sort  of  things  that  peo- 
ple never  said,  and  she  was  so  calm  and  frank  about 
it,  calmer  and  franker  than  people  ever  were. 

"  You  will  listen  seriously  for  a  moment?  Well, 
what  I  want  to  ask  you  is  this:  have  you  never 
thought  that  it  would  be  better  ...  if  we  just 
quietly  separated,  Henri?" 

He  said  nothing,  looked  at  her  with  his  great  won- 
dering eyes. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  late,"  she  said,  "  very  late 
for  me  to  propose  it.  But  it  is  perhaps  not  too 
late  .  .  .  Let  us  be  honest,  Henri:  we  have  never 
been  happy  together.  You  might  perhaps  still  be 
happy  without  me,  released  from  me,  free  .  .  ." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her,  his  eyes  still  full  of 
amazement;  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  was  afraid 
to  turn  his  gaze  towards  a  life  of  such  transcendent 
peace  and  quietness  and  sincerity.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  she  was  urging  him  to  take  a  road  which  grew 
fainter  and  fainter  as  it  took  its  mystic,  winding  way 
towards  clouds  .  .  .  towards  things  that  did  not 
exist. 

"I?  .  .  .  Happy?"  he  stammered,  not  knowing 
what  to  say. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  275 

But  a  more  concrete  thought  now  came  into  his 
mind  : 

"  And  Addie?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  forgetting  him,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  He  is  the  child  of  both  of  us,  whom  we  both  love. 
If  we  quietly  .  .  .  quietly  separate,  if  you  become 
happy  later,  he  will  be  able  to  understand  that  his 
parents,  however  passionately  they  both  loved  him, 
separated  because  it  was  better  that  they  should. 
He  need  not  suffer  through  it.  He  will  not  suffer 
through  it.  At  least,  I  like  to  think  that  he  will  not. 
If  we  are  only  honest,  Henri,  he  cannot  suffer 
through  it." 

"  And  you  .  .  .  what  would  you  do?  " 

She  blushed,  but  did  not  lose  her  composure;  he 
did  not  see  her  blush.  She  had  not  yet  thought  of 
herself  for  a  moment:  she  was  thinking,  had  been 
thinking,  after  that  wave  of  remorse  and  after  hold- 
ing Marianne  that  morning  in  her  arms,  only  of  him 
and  Marianne,  of  their  happiness,  his  and 
Marianne's,  even  though  she  did  not  mention  the 
girl's  name  again,  once  she  had  told  him  that 
Marianne  had  refused  Van  Vreeswijck.  She  was 
thinking  only  of  the  two  of  them.  .  .  .  What  would 
she  do?  She  did  not  know.  Her  love,  it  is  true, 
rose  radiantly  before  her:  her  love,  her  new  life; 
but  she  was  not  thinking  of  outward  change.  Life, 
the  real  life,  was  an  inward  thing;  outwardly  she  was 
the  mother  of  her  son  and  would  remain  so  ... 


276  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"I?"  she  asked.  "Nothing.  I  should  simply 
stay  as  I  am.  Addie  could  be  with  us  in  turns." 

"  It  would  distress  him,  Constance  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps,  at  first  .  .  .  But  he  would  soon  under- 
stand." 

"  Constance,  tell  me,  why  are  you  speaking  like 
this?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"  What  do  you  really  mean,  Constance  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  my  happiness?" 

"  Only  what  I  say,  Henri :  that  you  may  still  be 
able  to  find  your  happiness." 

"  You  are  frank,"  he  said,  forcing  himself  to 
adopt  her  tone,  though  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
speak  like  that.  "  You  are  frank.  I  will  also  try 
to  be  frank.  My  happiness?  You  speak  of  my 
happiness?  ...  I  am  too  old  to  find  that  now." 

"  No,  you  are  not  old.     You  are  young." 

"And  you?" 

"I  ...  am  old.  But  there  is  no  question  about 
me.  I  am  thinking  ...  of  you." 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  suddenly  understood 
her.  He  understood  her,  but  he  writhed  under  so 
much  frankness  and  at  seeing  life  so  honestly : 

"  No,  no,  Constance,"  he  mumbled. 

"  Think  it  over,"  she  said,  gently.  "  If  you  like 
...  I  will  agree.  Only  ...  let  us  do  it  quietly, 
Henri,  ...  let  us  do  it,  if  possible,  with  something 
of  affection  for  each  other." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  277 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  was  very  much 
moved : 

"  No,   Constance,   no,"  he  mumbled. 

"  Henri,  have  the  courage  to  be  honest.  Have 
the  courage  and  do  not  be  weak.  Be  a  man.  I  am 
only  a  woman  and  I  have  the  courage." 

"  Constance,  people  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Henri,  you  must  not  hesitate  because  of  peo- 
ple. If  we  cannot  do  it,  it  would  be  because  of  Ad- 
die.  But  I  like  to  think  that,  if  he  understands, 
he  will  not  suffer  through  it.  He  must  not  suffer 
through  it:  that  would  be  selfish  of  him;  and  he  is 
not  selfish." 

"  No,  Constance,  no !  "  he  protested  again. 

"  Think  it  over,  Henri,"  she  repeated.  "  Think 
it  all  out.  I  shall  think  of  Addie  also.  You  know 
how  passionately  devoted  I  am  to  him.  But  .  .  ." 

"  Constance,  it  is  all  too  late." 

"  But  think  it  over,  Henri." 

'  Yes,  yes,  Constance,  I  shall  ...  I  shall  think 
it  over." 

"  And,  if  we  decide  upon  it  ...  let  us  do  it  ... 
let  us  decide  to  do  it  with  something  of  affection  for 
each  other  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  Constance  .  .  .  yes,  with  affection  .  .  . 
You  are  nice  .  .  .  you  are  kind  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her,  his  chest  heaving  with  emotion ; 
a  haze  dimmed  the  boyish  glance  of  his  eyes.  She 
had  meant  to  go,  quietly,  to  leave  him  alone.  She 


278  THE  LATER  LIFE 

went  to  the  door,  without  another  word,  another 
look,  wishing  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  thoughts. 

"  Constance !  "  he  cried,  hoarsely. 

She  looked  round.  He  was  standing  before  her; 
and  she  saw  him  quivering,  trembling  with  the  emo- 
tion, the  shock  which  the  reality  of  life  had  sent 
shuddering  through  him.  For  a  moment  they  stood 
in  front  of  each  other;  and,  because  they  saw  into 
each  other's  eyes,  they  told  each  other  once  more  — 
silently,  without  words  —  that  they  understood  each 
other  I  A  great  gratitude,  an  emotion  that  to  him 
was  almost  superhuman  shot  through  his  small  soul 
and  flowed  over  her.  And,  impotently,  he  cried 
once  more,  like  a  man  in  a  fever: 

"Constance  I" 

He  flung  himself,  distractedly,  desperately,  with  a 
wild  impulse,  into  her  arms;  bursting  into  sobs,  he 
buried  his  head  in  her  breast.  She  started  violently; 
she  felt  his  convulsive  tremors  against  her  heart. 
Then  she  threw  her  arm  around  him,  stroked  his 
hair.  It  was  as  though  she  were  comforting  her 
son. 

"  I  am  mad,  I  am  mad !  "  he  muttered. 

He  released  himself,  hurriedly  pressed  a  quiver- 
ing kiss  on  her  forehead  and  tore  down  the  stairs. 
And,  when  she  went  down  to  her  drawing-room,  she 
suddenly  heard  the  front-door  slam  and  saw  him 
bicycling  away  like  a  madman,  his  back  arched  like 
a  professional's.  He  pedalled,  pedalled  furiously: 


THE  LATER  LIFE  279 

she  watched  him  lose  himself  ...  in  movement, 
speed  and  space  .  .  . 

"  Poor  boy !  "  she  thought. 

Then  she  sank  into  a  chair,  while  the  room  swam 
round  her.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  her  hands  fell 
limply  at  her  side.  So  she  sat  for  half  an  hour, 
unconscious,  alone  ...  as  if  the  new  life  had  been 
too  keen,  too  intense,  with  its  pure  air,  its  honesty 
.  .  .  too  rare  and  keen  in  its  cold-blue  ether  .  .  . 
and  as  if  she  were  swooning  away  in  it  ... 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SHE  came  to  herself  with  a  start  and  did  not  know 
whether  she  had  been  unconscious  or  asleep.  At 
the  same  moment,  she  heard  the  bell  and  through  the 
curtain  she  saw  Brauws,  standing  outside  the  door. 

"  It  is  he,  it  is  he  1  "  an  exultant  voice  cried  inside 
her. 

But  at  the  same  time  she  felt  too  nervous  and 
overwrought  to  receive  him,  just  ordinarily  and  na- 
turally. She  stopped  Truitje  in  the  hall,  said  that 
she  had  a  headache  and  the  girl  must  say  not  at 
home;  and  she  fled  to  her  bedroom  and  locked  her- 
self in. 

"  It  was  he,  it  was  he !  "  the  voice  still  sang,  al- 
most sorrowfully. 

But  she  could  not  have  talked  ordinarily  and  na- 
turally .  .  .  Suddenly  she  did  what  she  had  not  yet 
done  that  day:  she  thought  of  herself.  If  they  were 
to  separate,  Henri  and  she,  then  she  herself  would 
be  free!  .  .  .  Free!  A  violent  longing  surged  up 
in  her  to  see  Brauws,  to  speak  to  him,  to  say  just 
one  word  to  him,  to  ask  his  advice,  to  abandon  her- 
self, as  it  were,  to  that  advice!  ...  At  this  mo- 
ment, for  the  first  time,  the  thought  occurred  to  her 
that  he  must  love  her  too.  Would  he  come  so  often, 
if  not?  Would  he  speak  as  he  did,  reveal  himself 

280 


THE  LATER  LIFE  281 

so  completely,  otherwise?  Would  he  otherwise 
.  .  .  she  did  not  know  what ;  but,  as  she  recalled  him 
since  he  returned  from  Switzerland,  she  felt,  indeed 
she  was  certain  that  his  whole  being  was  permeated 
with  love  for  her  ...  a  love  that  was  strangely 
akin  to  regret,  but  still  love  .  .  .  Was  her  love  re- 
gret? No  .  .  .  Was  her  love  hope?  No,  not 
hope  either  .  .  .  Her  love,  hers,  was  only  life,  had 
hitherto  been  only  life:  the  lives  which  another 
woman  lives  from  her  eighteenth  year  onwards  she 
had  as  it  were  hastened  to  live  now,  late  as  it  was. 
Oh,  to  live  right  on  from  those  first  young  girlish 
dreams  which  had  danced  along  radiant  paths  to- 
wards the  high  clouds  above  her  .  .  .  while  all  the 
time  her  incredulous  little  laugh  had  tempered  their 
eager  joy  I  .  .  .  But  now,  since  she  had  spoken  to 
Van  der  Welcke,  now,  suddenly,  since  she  had 
awakened  from  her  sleep  or  her  swoon  after  that 
breath  of  pure  ether,  that  perfect  sincerity,  now  she 
felt  that  her  love  was  not  only  just  existence,  just 
life  —  the  real  existence,  the  real  life  —  but  that  the 
most  human  emotions  were  suddenly  passing 
through  her  soul;  that  she  herself  regretted  what 
might  have  been;  that  she  herself  hoped  —  O 
Heaven !  —  for  what  might  yet  be.  It  was  sud- 
denly as  though  all  her  past  had  fallen  from  her 
and  as  though  she  saw  a  number  of  new  paths  wind- 
ing towards  new  years,  towards  the  wide  fields  of  the 
future,  nothing  but  the  future.  It  was  as  though 


282  THE  LATER  LIFE 

this  new  inner  life  of  thinking  and  feeling,  this  new 
life  of  her  soul,  were  also  about  to  begin  a  new 
actual  life,  a  life  of  fresh  seasons,  which  lay  spread 
before  her  broad  and  generous  as  summer  and  to- 
wards which  she  would  fly  in  joyous  haste,  because 
it  was  already  so  late  .  .  .  but  not  yet  too  late,  not 
yet  too  late  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  herself,  for  the  first  time  that  day; 
and  a  violent  emotion  throbbed  within  her,  almost 
taking  away  her  breath.  Henri  would  be  back  pres- 
ently: would  he  tell  her  that  that  was  best,  that 
they  would  separate,  with  still  something  of  affection 
and  gratitude  for  each  other,  heedless  of  people  and 
of  everything  that  made  up  their  world,  because  they 
were  at  last  entitled  to  their  own  happiness,  to  the 
happiness  of  their  own  souls  and  to  the  happiness 
of  those  who  loved  them  really?  They  would  shake 
from  them  all  that  had  been  falsehood  during  all 
those  long,  long  years ;  and  they  would  now  be  true, 
honest  with  themselves  and  with  every  one;  and 
they  would  be  happy  ...  It  was  as  if  these  dreams 
were  already  lifting  her  up  out  of  the  ring  of  false- 
hood, the  ring  of  small  people,  small  souls.  Sitting 
there  in  her  chair,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands, 
compressed  her  closed  eyes  until,  in  their  blindness, 
they  saw  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  flashing  be- 
fore them  ...  so  as  not  to  see  her  room,  so  as  to 
see  nothing  but  her  dreams.  .  .  . 

"Mammal  .      ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  283 

She  started:  it  was  Addle  come  home.  And  the 
start  which  she  gave  was  a  violent  one,  for  she  had 
forgotten  him ;  and  a  quick  compunction  shot  through 
those  last  flashes.  She  had  forgotten  him;  and  yet 
time  after  time  she  had  said  to  herself  that  she  must 
speak  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  man. 

She  now  called  to  him  to  come  in,  for  he  always 
looked  in  on  her  when  he  returned  from  school  in 
the  afternoon.  And,  when  she  saw  him,  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  waking  from  a  dream.  Still  the  vio- 
lent emotion  continued  to  throb  in  her;  and  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  be  silent.  She  began,  at  once: 

"  Addie,  I  have  been  talking  to  Papa." 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  go  on.  Not  until 
he  sat  down  beside  her,  took  her  hand  in  his,  did 
she  continue,  with  difficulty: 

"  Addie,  would  it  make  you  very  unhappy  .  .  . 
if  .  .  ." 

"If  what,  Mamma?" 

"  If  we,  Papa  and  I  ...  quite  quietly,  Addie 
.  .  .  without  any  bitterness  .  .  .  were  to  sepa- 
rate?" 

He  started  inwardly,  but  remained  outwardly  calm. 
He  knew  the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  both  of 
them.  Had  he  not  constantly  heard  his  father's 
name  mixed  up  with  Marianne's?  Did  he  not  know 
and  had  not  he  —  he  alone,  within  himself,  without 
even  letting  his  mother  notice  it  —  had  he  not 
guessed  the  real  reason  why  Mamma  had  had  a  dif- 


284  THE  LATER  LIFE 

ferent  expression,  a  different  voice,  a  different  step 
during  the  last  few  months?  Did  he  not  feel  what 
prompted  her  to  go  for  long,  long  walks  —  some- 
times with  him,  sometimes  alone  —  over  the  dunes, 
towards  the  sea  ?  .  .  .  Though  he  did  not  know  her 
new  life,  he  had  guessed  her  love  .  .  . 

There  was  a  buzzing  in  his  ears  as  she  talked,  as 
she  explained  to  him  how  it  would  be  better  like  that, 
for  Papa,  and  how  they  both  loved  him,  their  child. 
She  mentioned  no  names,  neither  Marianne's  nor 
Brauws'.  He  remained  quiet;  and  she  did  not  see 
what  was  passing  within  him,  not  even  when  he  said : 

"  If  you  think  ...  if  Papa  is  of  opinion  .  .  . 
that  it  will  be  better  so,  Mamma  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  speaking,  while  her  heart  throbbed 
violently  with  the  force  of  her  emotion.  She  spoke 
of  honesty  and  sincerity  ...  of  happiness  for 
Papa  .  .  .  perhaps.  A  curious  shyness  made  her 
shrink  from  speaking  of  herself.  He  hardly  heard 
her  words.  But  he  understood  her:  he  understood 
what  she  actually  wanted,  the  future  which  she 
wished  to  bring  about  and  compel.  But  a  passion 
of  melancholy  overwhelmed  him  and  his  heart  was 
weighed  down  with  grief.  He  heard  her  speak  of 
her  life  —  his  father's  and  hers  —  as  a  chain,  a 
yoke,  a  lie.  He  felt  dimly  that  she  perhaps  was 
right;  and  the  light  of  those  glowing  dreams  of  hers 
made  something  shine  vaguely  before  his  childish 
eyes.  But  he  found  in  it  only  sadness;  and  his 


THE  LATER  LIFE  285 

heart  was  still  heavy  with  grief.  He  was  their 
child;  and  it  seemed  as  though  something  in  his  soul 
would  be  rent  asunder  if  they  separated,  even  though 
their  life  together  was  a  lie,  a  chain,  a  yoke.  He 
tried  to  weigh  those  words,  to  sound  their  depths, 
to  feel  them.  But  it  was  only  his  sadness  that  he 
measured,  only  the  depth  of  his  own  sorrow.  If  they 
were  to  separate,  his  parents  whom  he  loved  so  well, 
both  of  them,  each  of  them,  whom  he  had  learnt 
to  love  so  well  just  perhaps  because  they  did  not 
love  each  other,  then  his  love,  so  it  suddenly  ap- 
peared to  him,  was  something  which  they  could  both 
do  without,  something  of  no  value,  to  either  of  them. 
That  was  how  he  felt  it,  though  he  could  not  have 
put  it  into  words;  and  he  felt  it  even  more  pro- 
foundly than  any  words  could  have  expressed  .  .  . 
But  she  noticed  nothing  in  him.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  he  had  felt  the  cruelty  of  life,  even 
towards  a  child,  a  boy;  and  it  was  not  his  nature  to 
show  weakness.  That  other  time,  after  his  childish 
soul  had  suffered  so  grievously,  when  he  had  doubted 
whether  he  was  his  father's  son,  he  had  resolved 
to  triumph  over  life's  cruelties  and  not  to  show  any- 
thing and  to  be  strong.  Now  the  moment  seemed  to 
have  come.  He  remembered  his  first  great  trouble, 
he  remembered  his  resolve :  the  resolve  to  be  always 
strong  after  that  first  childish  weakness;  and  he  was 
able  to  repeat,  calmly: 

"If  you  think  .  .  .  that  it  will  be  better  for  both 


286  THE  LATER  LIFE 

of  you,  Mamma  .  .  .  then  it  is  not  for  me  to  ob- 
ject .  .  ." 

She  thought  him  almost  cold;  but  he  kissed  her, 
said  that  he,  whatever  happened,  would  remain  the 
child  and  the  son  of  both  of  them,  that  he  would 
love  them  both,  equally  .  .  . 

But,  because  of  that  coldness,  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  suddenly  crossed  her  mind;  and  it  seemed  as 
though  her  dreams  grew  dark  and  cloudy  .  .  . 

"  Addie,"  she  asked  again,  "  tell  me  frankly,  tell 
me  honestly  that  I  am  right,  that  it  will  be  a  good 
thing  .  .  .  for  Papa  .  .  ." 

"And  for  you?  .  .  ." 

"  And  for  me,"  she  echoed;  and  he  saw  her  blush. 
"Or  ...  or,  Addie,  my  boy,  my  darling,  is  ... 
is  it  all  too  late?  Is  it  too  late  .  .  .  for  Papa's 
happiness?  " 

"  And  for  yours  too,  you  mean  .  .  .  Too  late  ? 
Why  should  it  be  too  late?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  thought  him  hard,  but  guessed 
that  he  was  suffering  more  than  he  was  willing  to 
admit  .  .  . 

"  I  thought  first  ...  of  Papa's  happiness,  Ad- 
die," she  said,  softly.  "  Because  Papa  has  never 
been  happy  with  me  .  .  .  with  me  who  took  every- 
thing from  him  and  gave  him  nothing  in  return,  I 
thought  first  of  all  ...  of  Papa's  happiness  and 
afterwards  .  .  .  afterwards  .  .  ." 

"  Afterwards  .      ,   ?  " 


THE  LATER  LIFE  287 

"Yes,  Addie,  then  I  thought  ...  of  my  own! 
But  perhaps  it  is  not  all  as  I  picture  it,  Addie  .  .  . 
and  perhaps  it  is  all  too  late  .  .  ." 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms;  and  she  felt  his 
young,  sturdy,  boyish  body  against  hers,  felt  it  all  af 
once,  as  a  pillar  of  strength. 

"Too  late?  Why  should  it  be,  Mamma?  Let 
us  first  hear  what  Papa  thinks.  Too  late?  No, 
Mamma.  If  you  see  it  in  this  light  for  the  first  time 
now,  why  .  .  .  why  should  it  be  too  late?  " 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  laid  her 
head  on  his  shoulder: 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  I  thought  ...  I  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  .  .  .  for  everybody 
.  .  .  for  all  of  us  ...  Perhaps  I  am  wrong.  I 
can't  tell  ...  I  am  tired,  dear.  Leave  me  here  by 
myself.  Have  your  dinner  with  Papa :  I  don't  want 
any  dinner,  I  am  tired,  I  sha'n't  come  down  .  .  . 
Hark,  there's  Papa  coming  in.  Go  and  tell  him  that 
I  am  tired.  Go  now,  go  at  once.  ...  I  can't  say: 
perhaps  it  is  not  as  I  thought,  Addie,  and  perhaps 
.  .  .  perhaps  it  is  all  ...  too  late  1  " 

She  saw  his  eyes  grow  softer,  full  of  pity;  he 
pressed  her  to  him. 

"  Addie !  "  she  suddenly  implored.  "  Whatever 
I  may  lose,  never,  never  let  me  lose  you!  For 
all  the  rest  is  perhaps  illusion  .  .  .  and  all  too 
late,  too  late  .  .  .  But  you  .  .  .  you  are  real, 
you  exist !  " 


288  THE  LATER  LIFE 

She  held  him,  clung  to  his  strong  shoulders;  and 
he  saw  her  very  pale,  anxious-eyed: 

"  Mamma  .  .  ." 

"  No,  leave  me  now,  my  boy  .  .  .  leave  me  alone 
.  .  .  and  go  to  Papa  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her  once  more  and  went  away. 

She  stayed  behind,  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
She  saw  herself,  after  all  this  emotion,  saw  her  pale 
face,  her  grey  hair: 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "  Oh,  to  live 
really,  I  must  not  ...  I  must  not  think  of  myself ! 
.  .  .  For  me  ...  it  is  all  too  late!  If  it  has  to 
be  so,  if  we  separate,  it  must  be  only  .  .  .  only  for 
him,  for  Henri  .  .  .  and  for  .  .  .  and  for  Mari- 


anne I  " 


She  sank  into  her  chair,  covered  her  face,  kept 
her  eyes  tightly  closed;  but  their  blindness  no  longer 
saw  the  rainbow-colours  flashing  before  them  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ADDIE,  downstairs,  helped  his  father  with  the 
bicycle,  took  it  for  him  to  the  little  room  by  the 
kitchen,  promised  Papa  to  see  to  it  for  him  in  the 
morning. 

"  Am  I  late  for  dinner?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

He  was  tired  and  hot;  his  clothes  were  sticking 
to  him. 

"  Mamma  has  a  head-ache,"  said  Addie.  "  Go 
and  change  your  things  first:  dinner  can  wait." 

Van  der  Welcke  dragged  himself  upstairs.  He 
had  bicycled  so  hard  that  day  —  both  morning  and 
afternoon  —  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  front  of  him,  his 
thoughts  fixed  in  front  of  him,  that  his  body  was 
tingling  with  weariness,  his  eyes  blind  with  that  fixed 
staring,  as  if  they  had  been  full  of  dust  and  sand. 

"  Come  and  help  me,"  he  said  to  Addie. 

And,  going  to  the  bathroom,  he  flung  off  all  his 
clothes  and  took  a  shower-bath,  while  Addie  brought 
him  fresh  things. 

He  was  ready  in  ten  minutes,  doing  everything  in 
a  feverish,  tired  hurry: 

"  Now  we  can  have  dinner.  Isn't  Mamma  com- 
ing down?  " 

"  No." 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  but  Van  der 

289 


290  THE  LATER  LIFE 

Welcke  was  not  hungry,  did  not  eat.  The  servant 
took  something  up  to  Constance.  Dinner  was  over 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"  I  am  tired!  "  Van  der  Welcke  confessed. 

The  maid  had  soon  cleared  the  table.  And 
they  remained  in  the  dining-room,  which  was  now 
growing  dark. 

The  French  windows  were  open  and  the  sultry 
evening  filled  the  room.  Van  der  Welcke,  who  had 
thrown  himself  into  a  chair,  got  up  restlessly,  strode 
into  the  garden,  came  back  again.  When  he  saw 
Addie  sitting  quietly  on  the  sofa,  he  flung  himself 
beside  him,  laid  his  head  on  the  boy's  knees.  Then, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  he  fell  asleep,  almost  immediately. 

Addie  sat  without  moving,  let  his  father  sleep 
there,  with  his  head  on  his  son's  knees. 

From  another  villa,  a  stream  of  yellow  light 
flowed  across  the  garden  and  cast  dim  shadows  in  the 
dark  dining-room.  And  in  the  kitchen  the  maid 
went  on  drearily  humming  the  same  tune  as  in  the 
afternoon,  as  though  she  were  humming  uncon- 
sciously. 

The  boy  sat  still,  with  set  lips,  looking  down  at 
his  father,  whose  chest  rose  and  fell  peacefully,  with 
the  deep  breathing  which  Addie  felt  against  his 
hand  .  .  . 

That  afternoon,  those  two,  his  father  and  mother, 
had  spoken  to  each  other,  for  the  first  time,  seriously, 
in  truth  and  sincerity,  as  his  mother  had  told  him. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  291 

i 

And  now  the  thought  was  whirling  in  both  their 

minds  that,  after  years  and  years  of  wretchedness 
and  disunion,  they  were  going  to  separate  after  all ! 
For  Papa's  happiness,  Mamma  had  said;  and  Addie 
believed  that  that  was  how  she  meant  it. 

Apart  from  this,  there  had  been  no  names  men- 
tioned; but  Addie  knew  that  both  Mamma  and  Papa, 
that  afternoon,  had  thought  —  as  he  was  thinking 
now  —  had  thought,  behind  their  spoken  words,  of 
Marianne.  And  now  jealousy — that  heritage  from 
both  his  parents  —  sprang  up  in  the  boy's  breast, 
jealousy  no  longer  vague  and  formless.  He  felt  it 
with  a  keener  pang  because  Papa,  at  this  moment, 
cared  more  for  Marianne  than  for  him.  He  felt 
too,  for  the  first  time,  that,  though  he  did  not  mean 
to,  he  loved  his  father  better  than  his  mother:  his 
father  who  was  like  a  child,  who  was  himself  a  boy, 
a  brother,  a  friend  to  him,  something  more  than  a 
father  almost.  In  their  brotherly  comradeship,  they 
had  seemed  gradually  to  lose  sight  of  the  difference 
in  age,  of  filial  respect;  and  in  Addie's  love  for  his 
father  there  was  an  element  —  not  yet  fully  devel- 
oped, but  slowly  gathering  strength  —  of  protection 
almost,  a  feeling  that  he  was  perhaps  not  yet  the 
stronger,  but  that  he  would  become  so  when  he  was 
a  little  older.  It  was  a  strange  feeling,  but  it  had 
always  come  natural  to  him,  that  way  of  looking 
upon  his  father  as  a  younger  brother  to  be  loved 
and  protected. 


292  THE  LATER  LIFE 

It  was  perhaps  all  for  nothing,  useless,  he  thought, 
and  worthless.  It  was  Marianne  that  Papa  cared 
for  now.  And  he  remembered  how  he  had  some- 
times thought  that  Papa  was  so  young  that  one  could 
imagine  him  with  a  very  young  wife,  a  young  girl 
like  Addie's  cousins,  a  girl  like  .  .  .  Marianne. 

So  it  was  to  happen  .  .  .  Papa  and  Mamma 
.  .  .  would  separate  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 

He  felt  the  sadness  of  it  all  ...  and  his  heart 
was  very  heavy  .  .  .  and  his  lips  became  still  more 
compressed  because  he  did  not  want  to  cry.  He 
wanted  to  stand  firm  against  the  cruelties  of  life;  and, 
if  Papa  could  do  without  him,  if  Mamma  also 
thought  it  better  so,  if  perhaps  it  was  also  better  for 
Mamma  and  would  make  her  happier,  why,  then  it 
was  all  right  and  he  could  bear  it  with  strength  and 
fortitude.  He  was  a  child,  a  boy;  but  he  felt 
vaguely  that  soon  the  world  would  open  before  him. 
He  must  forget  everything  therefore:  everything 
about  his  parents,  their  ill-assorted  lives,  in  which 
he  had  been  the  only  comfort  and  consolation.  No, 
it  would  all  be  different  in  future;  and,  if  nothing 
else  could  be  done,  well  then,  it  must  be  like  that. 
When  Papa,  later  on,  was  tired  or  in  the  blues  or  any- 
thing, he  would  not  lay  his  head  on  Addie's  knees, 
just  like  a  little  brother,  and  go  to  sleep :  Marianne 
would  comfort  him  instead. 

Addie  tried  to  suppress  that  feeling  of  jealousy, 
but  it  kept  on  shooting  through  him,  like  a  painful, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  293 

smarting  sting  .  .  .  But  suddenly,  in  the  dark 
room,  in  the  silent  house  —  the  servant  was  no 
longer  singing  —  Van  der  Welcke  woke,  drew  him- 
self up,  rubbed  his  neck,  which  was  stiff  with  lying 
down. 

"  Well,  you've  had  a  good  long  nap  1  "  said  Addie, 
making  his  voice  sound  rough. 

There  was  nothing  in  that  voice  and  in  the  boyish 
phrase  to  suggest  the  jealousy,  the  melancholy  and 
the  great  sorrow  that  was  weighing  down  his  childish 
soul. 

Van  der  Welcke  seemed  to  be  waking  up  to  life  and 
reality  after  his  vain  attempt  to  lose  himself  in  that 
mad  devouring  of  distance.  He  remembered  his 
conversation  with  his  wife,  in  which  she  had  been  so 
unusually  gentle,  so  indulgent,  showing  such  self- 
effacement  and  self-sacrifice  ...  so  much  indeed 
that  he  had  had  to  kiss  her  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  I  have  been  speaking  to  Mamma,"  said  he. 

But  he  was  silent  again,  could  get  no  further. 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Addie,  to  make  it  easier  for 
him. 

But  he  also  did  not  know  what  to  say;  and  they 
remained  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  dark  dining-room, 
both  staring  at  the  shaft  of  yellow  light  that  streamed 
across  the  garden  from  the  villa  at  the  back.  Each 
now  knew,  however,  that  the  other  knew;  and  Addie 
threw  his  arm  over  his  father's  shoulder,  almost  pro- 
tectingly. 


294  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  It  is  an  idea  of  Mamma's,  Addie  .  .  .  that  it 
would  be  better  ..." 

"  For  both  of  you." 

11  For  me,  Mamma  thought." 

"  And  for  her  too." 

"  And  you,  my  boy,  what  would  you  think  ...  if 
it  did  come  to  that  .  .  .  at  last?  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  both  consider  .  .  .  calmly  and  dispas- 
sionately .  .  .  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  .  .  ." 

"  And  you,  you  would  spend  a  part  of  the  year 
with  Mamma  and  a  part  with  me  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  You're  taking  it  very  coolly,  Addie." 

"  Dad,  what  else  is  there  to  do?  If  it's  better 
like  that  .  .  .  for  the  two  of  you  .  .  .  I'm  bound 
to  think  it  all  right." 

"  If  you  can  talk  like  that,  it's  because  you're  not 
so  fond  of  us  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I'm  just  as  fond  of  you :  of  Mamma,  Dad, 
and  of  you.  But,  if  it's  got  to  be,  it's  got  to 
be  .  .  ." 

"  It's  strange,  Addie,  how  everything  suddenly, 
one  fine  day,  seems  likely  to  become  different  .  .  ." 

"  Mamma  saw  it  like  that  .  .  ." 

'  Yes.  Mamma  has  changed  lately,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  Mamma  has  become  rather  gentler,  not  so  quick- 
tempered." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  295 

"  Yes,  not  so  quick-tempered." 

"  That's  all  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  that's  all.  Tell  me,  Addle,  tell  me  hon- 
estly :  do  people,  as  far  as  you  know,  still  .  .  .  talk 
about  us  ...  as  much  as  they  did?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Dad.  I  don't  bother  about 
'  people.'  I  just  go  to  school,  you  see.  But  I 
think  .  .  ." 

"  Do  they  talk  about  Mamma?  " 

"  No." 

"Not  at  all?" 

"  I  never  hear  anything." 

"About  me?" 

"  Yes." 

"They  talk  about  me?" 

"  Yes,  they  talk  about  you,  Dad." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

'*  They  talk  of  you,  Dad,  and  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  Marianne." 

"  She  is  going  to  Baarn  .  .  .  and  then  we  sha'n't 
see  each  other  any  more.  People  are  always  ready 
to  jabber  .  .  .  because  I've  gone  cycling  and  mo- 
toring .  .  .  with  Marianne." 

It  was  as  though  he  were  confessing  and  denying 
in  the  same  breath. 

"  Addie,"  he  continued,  "  I  cycled  a  great  way  to- 
day." 


296  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Yes,  Dad." 

"  I  can  always  think  best  when  I'm  cycling  like 
mad." 

"  Yes,  Dad,  I  know." 

"  When  I'm  scorching  along  the  roads,  like  a  luna- 
tic, I  can  think.  At  any  other  time,  I  can't." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  thought  a  great  deal  to-day,  Addie.  As 
a  rule,  I  never  think  about  anything.  It  tired  me 
to-day  even  more  than  the  cycling  itself.  I'm  tre- 
mendously tired." 

"  Well,  Dad,  go  to  bed." 

"  No,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want  to  sit  with 
you  like  this.  You're  my  friend,  aren't  you,  your 
father's  friend?  Or  aren't  you  that  any  longer?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

*  You're  so  cold,  Addie,  you  don't  care  a  bit." 

"  Yes,  Dad,  I  do  care." 

And  he  pulled  Van  der  Welcke  to  him  and  pressed 
his  father's  head  against  his  chest: 

"  Lie  like  that  now  and  talk  away.     I  do  care." 

"  I  thought  a  great  deal,  Addie,  cycling.  This 
morning,  I  was  angry,  furious,  desperate.  I  could 
have  done  something  violent,  broken  something, 
murdered  somebody." 

"  Come,  come !  .  .  ." 

'  Yes,  murdered  ...  I  don't  know  whom  .  .  . 
I  felt,  Addie,  that  I  could  have  become  very  happy 
if  .  ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  297 

"  Yes,  Dad,  I  know  .  .  ." 

"You  know?" 

11  Yes." 

"You  understand?" 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

"  When  I  came  home,  I  was  tired  and  mad  with 
misery.  Mamma  came  upstairs  and  talked  to  me. 
She  told  me  that  Van  Vreeswijck  .  .  .  had  asked 
her  to  go  to  the  Bezuidenhout  and  speak  to  Aunt 
Bertha  .  .  .  and  to  Marianne,  because  Van  Vrees- 
wijck .  .  .  do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  Dad." 

"  Mamma  went.  I  was  furious  when  I  heard  that 
she  had  been.  But  she  said  that  Marianne  re- 
fused .  .  ." 

"Marianne  refused  him?" 

"  Yes.  Then  .  .  .  then  Mamma  said  .  .  .  then 
she  asked  ...  if  it  wouldn't  be  better  that  we  — 
she  and  I  —  do  you  understand?  " 

"  Yes,  Dad." 

"  She  said  it  in  a  very  nice  way.  She  said  it 
gently,  not  at  all  angrily.  It  was  nice  of  her  to 
think  of  it,  you  know,  Addie." 

"  Yes,  Dad,  she  is  nice." 

"  Well,  old  chap,  then  .  .  .  then  I  gave  her  a  kiss 
.  .  .  because  she  was  so  nice  about  it  and  said  it  so 
kindly.  And  then  .  .  .  then  I  went  cycling  again." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  can  think  best  when  I'm  cycling.     I  rode  and 


298  THE  LATER  LIFE 

rode.  Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking,  would  it  be  a 
good  thing?  .  .  .  My  boy,  you  are  more  than  my 
son,  aren't  you:  you're  my  friend?  " 

11  Yes." 

"  All  the  time,  I  was  thinking  ...  of  Marianne. 
I  am  fond  of  her,  Addie." 

"  Yes,  Father." 

"  I  tried  to  imagine  it  ...  I  know  .  .  .  that 
she  is  fond  of  me,  Addie." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  tried  to  picture  it  ...  And  then,  Addie  .  .  . 
then  I  thought  myself  old.  Tell  me,  I  am  old,  don't 
you  think?  " 

"  You  are  not  old,  Father." 

"  No,  perhaps  not  .  .  .  Still,  Addie,  I  don't 
know,  I  really  don't  know  .  .  .  Then,  Addie,  I 
thought  ..." 

"Of  what,  Dad,  of  whom?" 

"  I  went  on  riding,  like  a  madman.  That's  how 
I  think  best.  Then  I  thought  of  ...  you." 

"Of  me?" 

"  Yes,  of  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  my  boy,  if  we  did 
that  ...  if  everything  was  changed  .  .  .  wouldn't 
you  be  unhappy?  " 

"  If  it  was  for  the  happiness  of  both  of  you,  no. 
Then  I  should  not  be  unhappy." 

"  Yes,  so  you  say.  But  you  would  have  to  be  un- 
happy .  .  .  inside.  If  you  still  love  us  both.  I 
thought  it  all  out  till  I  was  dog-tired.  For  I  never 


THE  LATER  LIFE  299 

think  as  a  rule.  Thinking  bores  me.  This  time,  I 
had  to  ...  because  Mamma  had  spoken  as  she 
did.  Yes,  you  are  bound  to  be  unhappy  ...  if 
you  still  care  .  .  .  for  both  of  us." 

"  I  tell  you  again,  Dad  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  I,  Addie,  /  should  be  un- 
happy .  .  .  afterwards,  when  it  had  once  happened 
.  .  .  /  should  be  unhappy  .  .  .  because  of  you." 

"  Because  of  me?  " 

"  Because  of  you.  You  would  no  longer  have  a 
home." 

"  I  should  have  two  homes." 

"  No,  no,  you  would  have  none.  You  would  go 
wandering  to  and  fro  between  your  parents.  True, 
you  will  soon  be  a  man.  You  will  soon  be  leaving 
your  parents.  But  I  do  feel  now  that  you  would 
have  no  home  and  that  you  would  have  a  father 
and  a  mother  .  .  .  but  no  parents.  Do  you  fol- 
low me?  No  parents.  Even  though  they  quar- 
rel, you  have  parents  now.  Perhaps,  in  a  few 
years,  you  won't  care  about  them  .  .  .  and  about 
their  home.  But  just  now,  Addie,  just  for  the 
present,  you  would  be  losing  a  great  deal  .  .  .  You 
see,  old  chap,  your  father  has  thought  it  all  out  .  .  . 
and  I  frankly  confess,  it's  made  me  dog-tired.  I'm 
resting  now,  while  I  tell  it  you  like  this,  leaning  up 
against  you." 

"  Yes,  Dad." 

"  My  boy,  my  own  boy  I  ...  Well,  you  see,  when 


300  THE  LATER  LIFE 

your  father  had  got  so  far  .  .  .  then  he  felt  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  That  he  cared  more  for  you  .  .  .  than  for 
Marianne,  poor  darling.  Differently,  you  know, 
but  more.  Much  more.  Poor  darling!  " 

A  passion  of  joy  swept  through  the  lad;  his  chest, 
on  which  his  father's  head  lay,  heaved.  But  he  felt 
that  it  was  wicked  to  have  that  joy: 

"  Dad,  once  more,  if  it  means  your  happi- 
ness .  .  ." 

"  No,  old  chap  .  .  .  for  there  would  be  some- 
thing severed  in  me,  something  broken:  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it.  I  should  miss  you  all  the  time  that 
you  were  not  with  me.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Addie. 
It's  an  impossibility,  Addie  .  .  .  You  know,  old 
chap,  I  oughtn't  to  talk  like  this  to  a  son  of  fifteen. 
Fifteen?  No,  you're  only  fourteen.  Well,  you 
look  sixteen.  But  that's  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I 
oughtn't  to  talk  like  this.  I'm  a  queer  father,  eh, 
Addie?  I  don't  give  you  a  proper  upbringing:  I 
just  let  you  go  your  own  way.  Lord,  old  chap,  I 
can't  do  it,  I  can't  give  you  a  proper  upbringing! 
I  shouldn't  know  how.  You'll  bring  yourself  up, 
won't  you?  You  're  sure  to  be  good  and  clever  and 
honourable  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  don't  know  how, 
you  see:  I  just  let  you  run  wild,  like  a  colt  in  a 
meadow.  Well,  you  promise  me  to  turn  out  all 
right,  don't  you?  To  do  nothing  mean  and  so  on? 
You  know,  if  Grandpapa  were  to  hear  all  this,  were 


THE  LATER  LIFE  301 

to  hear  me  talking  like  this,  he  would  think  it  very 
odd.  And  it  is  odd.  It's  not  right.  But  your 
father,  Addle,  is  like  that :  he's  hopeless,  quite  hope- 
less. So  now  you  know  all  about  it.  I  couldn't  do 
it  ...  Poor  Marianne,  poor  darling!  But  she's 
young  still;  she'll  have  her  happiness  one  day,  a  dif- 
ferent happiness.  .  .  .  Well,  Addie,  tell  Mamma 
to-morrow.  Tell  her  I  would  rather,  if  Mamma 
agrees,  leave  everything  as  it  is,  old  chap,  even 
though  it's  not  always  a  paradise,  that  I'd  rather 
leave  everything  as  it  is,  old  chap,  for  your  sake  .  .  . 
and  also  for  my  own :  I  could  never  do  without  you 
for  six  months.  You  may  be  going  away  quite 
soon :  Leiden  .  .  .  and  then  your  service  .  .  .  but, 
for  the  present  .  .  .  for  the  present  .  .  .  Will  you 
tell  Mamma  to-morrow?  Those  serious  conversa- 
tions make  me  feel  so  tired  ...  in  my  head.  I 
would  rather  cycle  for  a  week  on  end  without  stop- 
ping than  spend  one  day  thinking  as  I  have  done 
to-day  .  .  .  And  now  I'm  going  to  bed,  old  chap, 
for  I'm  dead  tired  .  .  ." 

He  caught  his  son  in  his  arms,  held  him  closely, 
kissed  him  and  went  away  abruptly.  The  boy  re- 
mained alone  in  the  dark  room.  The  yellow  shaft 
of  light  from  the  other  villa  died  away.  The  house 
was  quite  silent;  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed.  And 
the  boy  stayed  on,  knowing  all  the  time  that  his  par- 
ents upstairs,  in  their  own  rooms,  were  still  sepa- 
rated, in  spite  of  so  much  that  might  have  united 


302  THE  LATER  LIFE 

them;  he  sat  there,  still  and  silent,  staring  out  into 
the  hot  summer  night,  through  which  the  trees 
loomed  like  ghostly  giants,  sombre  and  oppres- 
sive .  .  . 

Yet  his  soul  was  flooded  with  a  great  joy:  his 
father  loved  him  best! 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

CONSTANCE  remained  alone  the  whole  evening. 

She  had  opened  both  her  bedroom-windows  wide; 
and  she  looked  out  over  the  road  into  the  sultry 
night.  She  had  undressed  and  put  on  a  white  wrap- 
per; and  she  remained  sitting,  in  the  dark  room,  at 
the  open  window. 

For  a  moment,  she  thought  that  Van  der  Welcke 
would  come  to  her,  to  tell  her  his  decision;  but  he 
did  not  come  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  be  staying  with 
Addle  in  the  dining-room  .  .  .  Then  she  heard  him 
go  to  his  own  room.  .  .  . 

In  the  silence,  in  the  still,  sultry  darkness,  which 
seemed  to  enter  the  room  almost  heavily,  her  rest- 
lessness, the  doubt  which  she  had  felt  rising  in  her- 
self, during  those  few  words  with  Addie,  melted 
away.  Sitting  at  the  open  window,  she  let  herself 
be  borne  along  by  the  silent,  insidious  magic  of  the 
late  summer  hour,  as  though  something  stronger* 
than  herself  were  overpowering  her  and  compelling 
her  to  surrender  herself,  without  further  thinking 
or  doubting,  to  a  host  of  almost  disquieting  raptures, 
which  came  crowding  in  upon  her  .  .  . 

Above  the  darkling  masses  of  the  Woods  hung  the 
sullen  menace  of  heavy  rain;  and,  just  once  or  twice, 
there  was  a  gleam  of  lightning  yonder,  in  the  direc- 

303 


3o4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

tion  of  the  sea,  which  she  divined  in  the  distance 
flashing  with  sudden  illuminations,  with  noiseless  re- 
flections, and  then  vanishing  in  the  low-hanging 
clouds  of  the  night. 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  at  first  oppressed  by 
her  doubt  and  by  the  heat,  but  gradually,  gradually 
—  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  electric  gleams  far  in  the  dis- 
tance —  all  her  doubts  melted  away,  the  enchant- 
ment penetrated  yet  deeper  and  the  storm-charged 
sultriness  seemed  a  languorous  ecstasy  in  which  her 
breast  heaved  gently,  her  lips  opened  and  her  eyes 
closed,  only  to  open  again,  wider  than  before,  and 
stare  at  the  lightning  that  flashed  and  vanished, 
flashed  and  vanished,  with  intervals  full  of  mys- 
tery .  .  . 

No,  she  doubted  no  longer :  all  would  be  well,  all 
would  be  well  .  .  .  She  could  not  make  a  mistake 
in  this  new  life,  this  later  life,  this  mature  life,  which 
she  had  lived,  so  to  speak,  in  a  few  months,  giving 
herself  up  entirely  to  sincerity  and  honesty  and  to  the 
crowning  love,  the  only  really  true  and  lofty  love. 
Her  love,  that  late  love,  had  been  her  life,  right 
from  those  girlish  dreams  of  a  few  months  past 
down  to  the  moment  of  inward  avowal;  and  what  in 
another  woman  would  have  lasted  years,  in  the  slow 
falling  of  the  days,  which,  like  beads  on  a  long 
string,  fell  one  by  one  through  the  fingers  of  silent 
fate,  the  unrelenting  teller  of  the  beads,  she  had 
lived  in  a  few  months :  after  her  dreaming  had  come 


THE  LATER  LIFE  305 

her  thinking;  after  her  thinking,  her  wish  to  know; 
after  her  wish  to  know,  her  plunge  into  books  and 
nature,  until  dreaming,  thinking,  knowledge  and, 
above  all,  love  supreme  and  triumphant  had  mingled 
to  form  a  new  existence  and  she  had  been  reborn  as 
it  were  out  of  herself. 

She  had  dreamed  and  thought  and  questioned  it 
all  hastily  and  feverishly,  as  though  afraid  of  being 
late,  of  feeling  her  senses  numbed,  her  soul  withered 
by  the  grey  years,  before  she  had  lived  .  .  .  before 
she  had  lived.  Hastily,  but  in  all  sincerity;  and  her 
late  awakening  had  been  deep  and  intense,  a  mystery 
to  herself  and  an  impenetrable  secret  to  all,  for  no 
one  knew  that  she  dreamed  and  thought  and  ques- 
tioned knowledge  and  nature ;  no  one  knew  that  now- 
adays she  looked  on  a  tree,  a  cloud,  a  book,  a  picture 
with  different  eyes  than  in  the  past,  when  she  had 
neither  eyes  nor  understanding  for  tree  or  cloud,  for 
book  or  picture,  nor  found  beauty  in  any;  no  one  saw 
that  something  cosmic  and  eternal  flashed  before  her 
in  that  one  swift  glance  of  tardy  recognition  and 
knowledge ;  no  one  knew  that  she,  the  aristocrat,  felt 
that  keen  pity  for  her  day  and  generation,  had  learnt 
to  feel  it  from  him,  through  him.  All  of  it,  all  of 
it,  all  her  later  life:  no  one  knew  it  save  herself 
alone  .  .  .  And  gradually,  too,  in  those  intimate 
conversations,  they  had  come  to  know  something  of 
each  other,  had  learnt  —  guessing  first  and  then 
knowing  —  that  they  had  found  each  other,  late  in 


3o6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

life  —  she  him,  he  her  —  as  though  at  last,  at  last, 
after  that  vague  instinctive  seeking  and  trying  to  find 
each  other  in  their  childhood  days,  Heaven  had  been 
merciful  1  How  vague  it  had  been,  that  shadowy  in- 
tuition, hardly  to  be  uttered  and  vanishing  as  soon 
as  uttered:  on  his  side,  that  distant  veil  of  mist,  that 
cloud,  on  the  horizon  of  the  moors;  on  hers,  that 
perpetual  longing  to  go  farther,  to  flit  from  boulder 
to  boulder  down  the  hurrying  stream,  as  it  rushed 
past  under  the  dense  canopy  of  those  tropical  trees: 
a  pair  of  children  knowing  nothing  of  each  other 
and  all  unconscious  until  years  later  that  they  were 
both  seeking  .  .  .  both  seeking!  Oh,  that  strange 
dream-quest,  that  nameless  desire,  which,  when  one 
breathed  it,  vanished,  was  no  longer  a  quest!  At  a 
touch,  it  became  intangible;  as  soon  as  one  grasped 
it,  it  slipped  away,  became  something  different,  some- 
thing different  .  .  .  But,  unbreathed,  untouched,  un- 
grasped,  just  dreamed  and  dimly  felt  in  those  far-off 
childhood  days,  it  was  that:  the  mystic,  wonderful 
reality,  which  was  the  only  reality  .  .  .  To  both  of 
them,  in  those  days,  it  had  been  too  gossamer-frail, 
too  intangible  and  too  incomprehensible  to  last  be- 
yond their  childhood,  that  seed  of  reality  working 
in  the  womb  of  time:  vanity  and  frivolity  had 
claimed  her  for  their  own,  study  and  reflection  had 
claimed  him;  and  each  had  wandered  farther  and 
farther  from  that  half-divined  other,  no  longer  even 
seeking  the  other  .  .  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  307 

The  years  had  heaped  themselves  up  between 
them,  between  her  at  the  Hague,  in  Rome,  in  Brus- 
sels, and  him  in  America,  when  she  was  an  elegant 
young  society-woman,  he  the  workmen's  friend  and 
brother,  their  comrade  who  yearned  to  know  and 
understand  them.  While  she  had  danced  and  flirted 
in  the  ball-rooms  of  Rome,  he  had  laboured  in  the 
docks,  gone  down  the  black  shafts  of  the  coal-mines. 
And  all  this  which  had  really  happened  seemed  un- 
real to  her,  a  dream,  a  remote  nightmare,  by  the 
side  of  that  childish  romance,  those  fairy  visions  of 
yesterday!  And  yet  it  had  all  happened,  it  had  all 
happened.  They  had  never  been  allowed  to  meet 
each  other,  not  even  when  they  had  been  brought 
near  each  other — on  the  Riviera,  in  Brussels  —  as 
by  an  unconscious  power!  They  had  not  been  al- 
lowed to  meet  until  now,  late,  very  late,  too  late 
.  .  .  Oh,  is  it  ever  given  too  late,  that  blessed  boon, 
to  live  at  last,  to  find  at  last? 

And  they  had  both  made  mistakes.  She  had 
made  her  mistakes :  her  brief  passion  for  Henri,  the 
sudden  kindling  of  the  senses  of  a  frivolous,  bored 
and  idle  woman;  then  the  marriage:  mistake  upon 
mistake,  nothing  but  waste,  waste,  waste  of  her  pre- 
cious life.  And  he  had  made  mistakes  too:  he  had 
dreamed  of  being  the  brother  of  those  men,  a  fellow- 
worker  and  comrade,  and  he  had  not  become  their 
brother.  Oh,  if  they  had  once  been  allowed  to 
know  and  find  each  other,  in  the  years  when  they 


3o8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

were  both  young,  what  a  harmony  their  life  to- 
gether might  have  been:  no  jarring  note  in  them- 
selves or  in  each  other,  but  perfect  harmony  in  all 
things,  attuned  to  the  note  of  their  day  and  genera- 
tion; he  by  her  side  to  understand  and  love  her  and 
support  her  when  the  sadness  of  it  all  oppressed 
her !  Oh,  to  have  lived,  when  still  young,  with  him, 
in  his  heart,  in  his  arms;  and  then  to  have  loved,  to 
have  understood,  to  have  done,  with  him  and  for 
his  sake,  all  that  can  still  be  done  for  one's  day  and 
generation  by  those  who  themselves  are  strong  and 
radiant  in  love  and  happiness  and  harmony!  .  .  . 

And  it  had  not  been  so;  the  precious  years,  far 
from  each  other,  had  been  wasted  ...  by  him:  he 
had  told  her  so;  by  her:  oh,  her  vain,  wasted 
years!  .  .  . 

No,  fate  had  not  willed  it.  And  yet,  now  that  at 
last,  at  last,  the  honest,  simple,  true  life  had  kindled 
into  flame,  now  that,  after  first  thinking  of  others  — 
of  Henri,  of  Marianne  —  she  had  also  thought  of 
herself,  also  thought  of  him,  could  not  an  outward 
physical  life  also  be  kindled  after  that  inward,  spirit- 
ual life,  far  from  everything  and  everybody  around 
them,  in  another  country  and  another  world,  a  life  in 
which  she  would  be  beside  him,  a  life  of  harmony 
which  might  be  tinged  with  the  melancholy  of  that 
late  awakening  but  would  still  be  perfect  harmony 
and  perfect  happiness?  .  .  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  309 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  hanging 
limply  beside  her,  as  if  she  lacked  the  energy  now 
to  grasp  the  tempting  illusion,  afraid  of  losing  it  and 
afraid  of  seizing  it  and  then  recognizing  it  as  an  il- 
lusion .  .  . 

And  the  sultry  air  seemed  to  be  pressing  upon  her 
softly  and  languorously  until  she  panted  and  her  lips 
parted  and  her  eyes  closed  only  to  open  again,  wider 
than  before;  and  in  that  atmosphere  of  ecstasy  it  ap- 
peared to  her  that  the  distant  lightning-streaks  yon- 
der, the  noiseless  flashes  over  the  wide  sea  which  she 
divined  yonder,  yonder,  far  away,  were  themselves 
the  swift  effulgence  of  her  thoughts  and  illusions  and 
regrets:  a  gleam  and  gone,  a  gleam  and  gone. 
When  it  gleamed,  came  the  smiling  hope  that  things 
could  become  and  remain  as  she  thought;  when  the 
light  faded,  came  doubt  .  .  .  yet  not  so  deep  but 
that  the  night  tempted  and  lured  her: 

"  Hope  again  .  .  .  think  once  more  .  .  .  dream 
again  ...  It  may  be  ...  it  is  not  impossible 
.  .  .  It  is  reality,  pure,  simple  reality;  it  will  mean 
the  happiness  of  those  two  poor  children,  Henri  and 
Marianne;  it  will  be  the  happiness  of  you  two,  him 
and  you,  the  woman  whose  life  blossomed  late  .  .  . 
It  is  possible:  hope  it  again,  think,  dream  it  again; 
for  what  is  impossibility,  when  truth  once  stands 
revealed,  however  late?  See,  the  truth  stands  re- 
vealed; the  lightning  flashes;  sometimes  the  whole 


3io  THE  LATER  LIFE 

sky  is  illumined  at  once;  the  low  clouds  drift  along; 
behind  them  .  .  .  behind  them  lies  the  infinity  of 
eternity,  of  everything  that  may  happen!  " 

The  room  was  quite  dark;  she  herself  alone  re- 
mained a  white  blur  in  the  window- frame ;  and  the 
night,  the  air,  the  lights  were  there  outside,  wide 
and  eternal.  And,  in  the  sweet  languor  of  the  late 
summer  hour,  of  the  sultry  night,  of  her  uncontrol- 
lable illusion  and  hopes,  she  felt  as  though  she  were 
uplifted  by  a  flood  of  radiant  ecstasy,  by  a  winged 
joy  that  carried  her  with  it  towards  the  sea  yonder, 
towards  the  bright  rifts  of  the  lightning-flashes,  to- 
wards the  distance  of  futurity,  eternity  and  every- 
thing that  might  happen  .  .  .  And  she  let  herself 
be  borne  along;  and  in  that  moment  a  certainty 
came  over  her,  penetrated  deep  down  in  her,  like  a 
divinely-implanted  conviction,  that  it  would  be  as  she 
had  dreamed  and  hoped  and  wished,  that  so  it  would 
happen,  at  long  last,  because  life's  chiefest  grace 
was  at  length  descending  upon  her  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  would  happen  like  that:  she  knew  it,  she 
saw  it  in  the  future.  She  saw  herself  living  by  his 
side,  in  his  heart,  in  his  arms;  living  for  herself  and 
him;  living  for  each  other  in  all  things;  she  saw  it 
shine  out  radiantly  with  each  lightning-flash  in  the 
radiant  shining  of  those  future  years.  She  saw 
them,  those  children  of  the  past,  with  the  dew  upon 
them,  smiling  to  each  other  as  though  they  who,  as 


THE  LATER  LIFE  311 

boy  and  girl,  had  unconsciously  sought  each  other 
had  grown  into  a  young  man  and  a  maiden  who  had 
found  each  other  .  .  .  after  the  mystery  of  the 
cloud-veil  and  of  the  distant  river  under  the  spread- 
ing leaves;  and  they  now  went  on  together:  their 
paths  ran  up  towards  the  glittering  cities  of  the 
future,  which  reared  their  crystal  domes  under  the 
revealing  skies,  while  from  out  their  riot  of  towers 
sunbeams  flashed  and  struck  a  thousand  colours 
from  the  crystal  domes  .  .  . 

A  wind  rose,  as  though  waking  in  the  very  bed 
of  the  slumbering  night,  and  leapt  to  the  sky.  A 
cool  breath  drifted  straight  out  of  the  sultry,  lour- 
ing clouds;  a  few  drops  pattered  upon  the  leaves. 
And  the  wind  carried  the  storm  farther,  carried  the 
revelation  with  it;  the  lightning  flashed  twice,  thrice 
more  .  .  .  vanished  .  .  .  paled  away  .  .  .  Not 
until  it  had  travelled  far,  very  far,  would  the  wind 
let  loose  the  clouds,  would  the  night-rain  fall  .  .  . 
so  Constance  thought,  vaguely  .  .  . 

And  she  sighed  deeply,  as  though  waking  out  of 
her  languor  of  ecstasy,  now  that  the  night,  after 
that  rising  wind,  was  no  longer  so  sultry  and  oppres- 
sive. She  stood  up,  wearily,  closed  the  window, 
saw  a  morning  pallor  already  dawning  through  the 
trees  .  .  . 

And  she  lay  down  and  fell  asleep:  yes,  that  was 
what  would  happen,  it  would  be  like  that;  she  felt 


3i2  THE  LATER  LIFE 

certain  of  it:  that  future  would  come;  the  paths  ran 
to  the  crystal-domed  city;  she  was  going  to  it  with 
him  .  .  .  with  him!  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  would  come,  it  would  come,  to-morrow, 
yes,  to-morrow  .  .  . 

And,  while  that  hope  still  continued  to  transfigure 
her  face,  pale  on  the  pillow  in  the  dawning  day,  her 
eyes,  blind  from  long  gazing  at  the  light,  closed 
heavily;  and  she  fell  asleep,  convinced  .  .  .  con- 
vinced . 


CHAPTER  XXX 

CONVICTION  had  conquered  doubt  and  reigned  tri- 
umphant. When  Constance  awoke  early  that  morn- 
ing, she  was  full  of  proud,  calm  confidence,  as 
though  she  knew  the  future  positively.  She  hesi- 
tated to  go  to  her  husband  in  his  room;  and  he 
seemed  to  avoid  her  too,  for  as  early  as  seven  o'clock 
she  saw  him,  from  her  window,  riding  off  on  his 
bicycle.  Since  their  conversation,  she  had  not  seen 
him,  did  not  know  what  he  thought;  and  it  struck 
her  that  he  was  not  dashing  away,  as  he  had  done 
so  often  lately,  like  a  madman,  but  that  he  pedalled 
along  quietly,  with  a  certain  melancholy  resignation 
in  his  face,  which  she  just  saw  flickering  past  under 
his  bicycling-cap. 

She  listened  to  hear  if  Addie  was  awake,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  still  asleep;  also  it  was  holiday-time. 
And  she  began  to  think  of  Van  Vreeswijck  and  made 
up  her  mind  to  write  to  him,  just  a  line,  to  ask  him 
to  come,  a  single  line  which  however  would  at  once 
allow  him  to  read,  between  the  letters,  that  Marianne 
could  not  love  him  .  .  .  And,  while  thinking,  with 
a  tender  pity  for  him  amid  her  own  calm  certainty, 
she  bit  her  pen,  looked  out  of  the  window  .  .  . 

The  August  morning  was  already  sunny  at  that 
hour:  there  was  a  blue  sky  with  white,  fleecy  clouds, 

313 


3i4  THE  LATER  LIFE 

which  passed  like  flocks  of  snowy  sheep  through  a 
blue  meadow;  the  wind  urged  the  sheep  before  it,  like 
an  impetuous  drover.  And,  while  she  searched  for 
those  difficult  words,  her  mind  recalled  the  night  be- 
fore and  the  lightning  yonder,  above  the  sea,  which 
she  divined  in  the  distance  ...  It  was  strange,  but 
now,  in  that  morning  light,  with  that  placid  sky  at 
which  she  gazed,  thinking  of  Van  Vreeswijck  and 
how  to  tell  him  in  a  single,  merciful  word  —  with 
that  summer  blue  full  of  fleecy  white,  at  which  she 
was  gazing  so  fixedly  after  the  ecstasy  and  winged 
bliss  that  had  uplifted  her  the  night  before  —  it 
was  as  if  her  calm,  proud  confidence  in  her  know- 
ledge of  the  future  was  wavering  .  .  .  She  did  not 
know  why,  for  after  all  she  thought  that  Henri 
would  consent  to  their  divorcing  .  .  . 

They  would  be  divorced  .  .  . 

And  Marianne  would  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  she  began  to  write.  She  wrote  more 
than  she  intended  to  write :  she  now  wrote  the  truth 
straight  away,  in  an  impulse  of  honesty,  and  at  the 
end  of  her  letter  she  asked  Van  Vreeswijck  to  call 
on  her  that  evening. 

She  had  just  finished,  when  Addie  came  in.  He 
kissed  her  and  waited  until  she  had  signed  her  let- 
ter. 

"Why  aren't  you  bicycling  with  Papa?"  she 
asked. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  315 

He  said  that  his  father  had  asked  him  to  speak 
to  her  .  .  . 

And  now,  sitting  beside  her,  with  her  hand  in 
his,  he  told  her,  without  once  mentioning  Mari- 
anne's name,  what  Papa  had  said.  His  calm,  al- 
most cold,  business-like  words  sobered  her  com- 
pletely, while  she  continued  pensively  to  look  at  the 
sky,  which  seemed  now  to  be  wearing  a  blue  smile 
of  ignorance  and  indifference  .  .  .  Suddenly  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  dreaming  .  .  . 
Not  that  her  thoughts  took  any  definite  form,  for 
first  the  ideal  vision  whose  realization  had  seemed 
so  certain,  then  the  morning  doubts  and  now  the 
disenchantment  of  the  sober  facts  had  all  followed 
too  swiftly  upon  one  another;  and  she  could  not  take 
it  all  in;  she  did  not  know  what  she  thought.  It 
only  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  dreaming. 

Automatically,  she  said: 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  so." 

She  had  not  expected  it! 

She  had  never  thought  that  Henri's  answer  would 
be  the  one  which  she  now  heard  from  the  mouth  of 
their  son! 

Did  one  ever  know  another  person,  though  one 
lived  with  that  person  for  years  ?  Did  she  know  her 
son,  did  she  know  herself? 

But  the  boy  held  her  hand  affectionately. 

And  he  read  the  stupefaction  in  her  eyes: 


3i6  THE  LATER  LIFE 

"  Tell  me,  honestly,  Mamma.  Are  you  disap- 
pointed?" 

She  was  silent,  gazed  at  the  placid  sky. 

"  Would  you  rather  have  started  a  fresh  life  .  .  . 
away  from  Papa?  " 

She  bowed  her  head,  let  it  rest  upon  his  shoulder: 

"  Addie,"  she  said. 

She  made  an  attempt  to  pick  her  words,  but  her 
honesty  was  once  more  too  strong  for  her: 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Then  you  would  rather  have  had  it  so  ...  for 
your  own  sake?  " 

"  I  would  rather  have  had  it  so,  yes." 

They  were  silent. 

"  I  had  even  pictured  it  ...  like  that,"  she 
said,  presently. 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  Papa  again  then,  Mamma?  If 
I  tell  him  that  you  had  already  been  thinking  of 
it  .  .  ." 

"  You  believe  ...   ?  " 

"  He  will  agree." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  If  it  means  the  happiness  of  both  of  you  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me  what  Papa  said." 

"  I  can't  remember  exactly  .  .  .  Only  Papa 
thought  .  .  .  that  not  to  see  me  for  six  months  at  a 
time  would  be  more  than  he  could  bear." 

"  Is  that  all  that  Papa  said?  " 

"  Yes." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  317 

But  he  gave  just  a  smile  of  melancholy  resigna- 
tion; and  his  look  told  that  that  was  not  all.  She 
understood.  She  understood  that  they  had  spoken 
of  Marianne. 

"  So  Papa  .  .  ."  she  repeated. 

"  Would  rather  stay  with  us,  Mamma." 

"With  us,"  she  repeated.  "We  three  to- 
gether?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It  means  going  on  living  ...  a  lie,"  she  said, 
in  a  blank  voice. 

"  Then  I  will  speak  to  Papa  again." 

"  No,  Addie." 

"Why  not?  .  .  ." 

"  No,  don't  do  that.  Don't  ask  Papa  ...  to 
think  it  over  again.  It  is  perhaps  too  late,  after  all; 
and  besides  .  .  .  Papa  is  right.  About  you." 

"About  me?" 

"  He  could  not  go  six  months  without  you.  And 
I  ..." 

"  And  you,  Mamma  .  .  ." 

"  I  couldn't  either." 

"  Yes,  you  could." 

"  No,  I  couldn't  either." 

She  suddenly  passed  her  hands  along  his  face, 
along  his  shoulders,  his  knees,  as  though  she  wished 
to  feel  him,  to  feel  the  reality  .  .  .  the  reality  of 
her  life.  He  .  .  .  he  was  the  real  thing,  the  truth; 
but  all  the  rest  between  her  husband  and  her  was 


3i8  THE  LATER  LIFE 

falsehood,  remained  falsehood  .  .  .  because  of  peo- 
ple. Could  they  not  even  for  Addie's  sake  purge 
that  falsehood  into  truth?  No,  no,  not  even  for 
him.  Would  falsehood  then  always  cleave  to 
them?  .  .  . 

'  We  are  too  small,"  she  thought  and  murmured 
her  thought  aloud. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Nothing  .  .  .  Very  well,  Addie  .  .  .  Tell  Papa 
that  it  shall  be  as  he  says,  that  I  am  quite  content 
.  .  .  that  I  could  not  do  without  you  either  .  .  . 
for  six  months !  " 

She  looked  at  him,  looked  into  his  serious  blue 
eyes,  as  though  she  had  forgotten  him  and  were  now 
remembering  him  for  the  first  time.  Six  months 
,  .  .  six  months  without  him!  The  new  life,  the 
new  paths,  the  new  cities,  on  those  far-off,  new  hori- 
zons .  .  .  and  six  months  .  .  .  six  months  without 
Addie!  .  .  . 

Had  she  then  been  dreaming?  Had  she  just 
been  dazzled  by  that  glittering  vision?  Was  it  just 
intoxication,  ecstasy?  Was  it  just  glamour  and  en- 
chantment? .  .  . 

He  left  her.     She  dressed  and  went  downstairs. 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  back  from  a  long  journey 
and  seeing  her  house  again  after  an  absence  of 
months.  Her  movements  were  almost  like  those  of 
a  sleep-walker;  the  house  seemed  something  remote 
and  impersonal,  though  she  had  always  loved  it, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  319 

looked  after  it,  made  it  her  beautiful  home  by  a 
thousand  intimate  touches.  She  now  went  through 
the  house  mechanically  performing  her  usual  little 
housewifely  duties,  still  half  dreaming,  in  a  condi- 
tion of  semi-consciousness.  It  was  as  if  her 
thoughts  were  standing  still,  as  if  she  no  longer 
knew,  nor  for  that  matter  thought,  remembering 
only  the  night  before,  that  lonely  evening  of  inward 
conviction  .  .  .  The  morning  had  dawned,  placid, 
with  its  cloudless  sky;  Addie  had  come:  she  now 
knew  what  Henri  thought.  It  surprised  her  just  a 
little  that  Henri  thought  like  that  .  .  .  and  then  she 
realized  that,  after  all,  he  did  not  love  Marianne 
very  much  .  .  .  that  he  must  love  her  less  than  Ad- 
die.  Poor  Marianne,  she  thought;  and  she  re- 
flected that  women  love  more  absolutely  than  men 
.  .  .  She  spoke  to  the  servant,  gave  her  orders,  did 
all  the  actual,  everyday  things,  in  between  her 
thoughts.  And  suddenly  she  looked  deep  down  into 
herself,  once  more  saw  so  completely  into  her  own 
clear  depths  that  she  was  startled  at  herself  and 
shuddered.  She  saw  that,  if  Henri  had  made  the 
same  proposal  to  her  that  she  had  made  to  him,  she 
would  have  accepted  it  in  her  desire  for  happiness, 
for  happiness  with  the  man  whom  she  loved  and 
who  —  she  felt  it  1  —  loved  her.  She  saw  that  she 
would  have  accepted  and  that  she  would  not  have 
hesitated  because  of  her  son!  .  .  .  Her  son!  He 
was  certain  to  be  leaving  them  soon  in  any  case  .  .  . 


320  THE  LATER  LIFE 

to  seek  his  own  life!  .  .  .  Her  son!  To  pro- 
vide him  for  a  few  years  more  with  the  paternal 
house,  that  wretched  fabric  of  lies,  which  he,  the 
boy,  alone  kept  together  .  .  .  for  his  sake  and  for 
the  sake  of  that  joint  falsehood,  she  would  have  to 
reject  the  new  life  of  truth!  ...  It  was  as  if  she 
were  standing  in  a  maze;  but  she  was  certain  that 
she  would  not  have  hesitated  in  that  maze,  if  the  de- 
cision had  been  left  to  her  .  .  .  that  she  would  have 
known  how  to  take  the  path  of  simple  honesty  .  .  . 
that  she  would  have  elected  to  separate,  in  spite  of 
Addie  .  .  .  that  she  loved  her  new  life  —  and  the 
stranger  —  more  than  her  child ! 

She  had  learnt  to  know  herself  in  that  new  atmo- 
sphere of  pure  truth;  and  now  .  .  .  now  she  saw  so 
far  into  those  translucent  depths  that  she  was  fright- 
ened and  shuddered  as  in  the  presence  of  something 
monstrous;  for  it  seemed  monstrous  to  her  to  place 
anything  above  her  child,  above  the  dear  solace  of 
so  many  years  .  .  . 

Just  then  Van  der  Welcke  came  home ;  she  heard 
him  put  away  his  bicycle,  go  up  the  stairs  .  .  .  and 
then  turn  back,  as  if  reflecting  that  he  could  no 
longer  avoid  his  wife.  He  entered,  abruptly.  She, 
trembling,  had  sat  down,  because  she  felt  on  the 
verge  of  falling  .  .  . 

"  Has  Addie  told  you?  "  he  asked. 

'  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  .  .  .  you  think  it  is  the  best  thing?  .  .  ." 


THE  LATER  LIFE  321 

"  Yes  ...  I  do  .  .  ." 

"  So  everything  remains  .  .  ."  he  said,  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"As  it  was,"  she  replied,  almost  inaudibly;  and 
her  voice  hesitated  also. 

"  He  told  you  .  .  .  the  reason?  "  he  went  on. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  could  not  do  without  him  ...  all  the  time 
that  he  would  be  with  you,  Constance.  And  you 
couldn't  do  without  the  boy  either,  could  you,  while 
he  was  with  me  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  automatically;  and,  as  her  voice 
failed  her,  she  repeated,  more  firmly,  "  No,  I  should 
not  be  able  to  do  without  him." 

At  that  moment,  she  did  not  know  if  she  was 
speaking  the  truth  or  not.  Only  she  had  a  vague 
sensation  ...  as  though  that  fair,  unsullied  truth 
were  retreating  a  little  farther  from  her  .  .  .  like  a 
glittering  cloud  .  .  . 

"  Then  we  might  try  to  be  more  patient  with 
each  other,"  he  said.  "  But  still  I  should  like  to 
tell  you,  Constance,  that  I  appreciate  your  thought 
.  .  .  your  intention  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  vaguely. 

"  Your  thought  for  me  .  .  ." 

"  Yes." 

But  she  now  found  it  impossible  to  let  that  retreat- 
ing truth  slip  still  farther  from  her;  and  she  said: 

"  I  was  thinking  of  myself  also,  Henri  .  .  .  but 


322  THE  LATER  LIFE 

it  was  not  clear  to  me  what  I  thought  ...  I  don't 
quite  know  .  .  .  Henri,  it  is  better  like  this,  for 
everything  to  remain  ...  as  it  was." 

"  And  we  both  of  us  love  our  boy." 

"  Yes,  both  of  us  .  .  ." 

He  saw  her  turn  very  pale  as  she  leant  back  in 
her  chair,  her  arms  hanging  limply  beside  her.  He 
had  a  sudden  impulse  to  say  something  kind,  to  give 
her  a  kiss;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  conscious 
that  neither  his  words  nor  his  caress  would  reach 
her.  And  he  thought,  what  was  the  good  of  it? 
They  had  no  love  for  each  other.  They  would  re- 
main strangers,  in  spite  of  all  that  they  had  felt  for 
each  other  during  these  days :  she  suggesting  for  his 
happiness  something  dead  against  convention;  he 
thrilling  with  genuine  gratitude  .  .  . 

"  Well,  that  is  settled  then,"  was  all  that  he  said 
in  conclusion,  quietly ;  and  he  went  out,  gently  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

She  did  not  move,  but  sat  there,  gazing  dully 
into  space.  Yes,  she  had  counted  her  son  a  lesser 
thing  than  her  new  life !  That  was  the  simple  truth, 
just  as  much  as  the  new  life  itself  .  .  .  And  now 
.  .  .  now,  as  though  her  mind  were  wandering,  she 
saw  that  new  life  like  a  crystal  city  around  her, 
threatening  to  crack,  to  rend  asunder,  to  be  shat- 
tered in  one  mighty  spasm  of  despair.  Her  eyes 
began  to  burn  from  staring  into  those  distant,  cruel 
thoughts.  In  her  breast  she  felt  a  physical  pain. 


THE  LATER  LIFE  323 

The  house,  the  room  stifled  her.  She  felt  impelled 
to  fly  from  that  house,  from  the  narrow  circles, 
which  whirled  giddily  around  her,  to  fly  from  her- 
self. She  was  so  much  perplexed  in  her  own  being, 
no  longer  knowing  what  was  right,  what  was  honest, 
what  true  .  .  .  that  she  yearned  for  space  and  air. 
Her  breast  was  wrung  with  grief  and  that  gasping 
for  breath.  Still,  she  controlled  herself,  took  up  a 
hat,  pinned  it  on  and  found  the  strength  to  say  to 
the  servant: 

"  Truitje,  I  am  going  out  .  .  ." 

She  was  outside  now,  in  the  road.  She  had  be- 
come afraid  of  the  loneliness  of  her  room  and  of 
herself,  a  loneliness  which  in  other  ways  had  be- 
come so  dear  to  her.  Now  she  was  seeking  some- 
thing more  than  spaciousness  of  air  and  forest;  but 
the  road,  in  which  a  few  people  were  walking,  made 
her  keep  herself  under  control.  She  turned  down  a 
side-path,  went  through  the  Woods.  Here  again 
there  were  people  taking  their  morning  stroll.  .  .  . 
Suddenly,  she  gave  a  violent  start:  she  saw  Brauws, 
sitting  on  a  bench.  She  felt  as  if  she  would  faint; 
and,  without  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  she 
turned  round  and  walked  back  ...  By  this  time, 
she  had  lost  all  her  self-command.  He  had  seen 
her,  however,  and  his  hand  had  already  gone  up  to 
his  hat  Suddenly,  she  heard  his  step  behind  her; 
he  came  up  with  her: 

"  Is  this  how  you  run  away  from  your  friends?  " 


324  THE  LATER  LIFE 

he  said,  making  an  attempt  to  joke,  but  in  obvious 
astonishment. 

She  looked  at  him;  and  he  was  struck  with  her 
confusion. 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  she  said,  frankly,  "  but  I  was 
startled  at  seeing  you." 

"  I  was  not  welcome,"  he  said,  roughly.  "  For- 
give me,  mevrouw.  I  ought  not  to  have  come  after 
you.  But  I'm  a  tactless  beggar  in  these  matters. 
I  am  not  one  of  your  society-men." 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  she  repeated,  almost  entreat- 
ingly.  "Society  indeed!  I  certainly  showed  my- 
self no  society-woman  ...  to  ...  unexpectedly 
to  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  know  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

"  To  turn  your  back  on  me,"  he  said,  completing 
the  sentence. 

"  To  turn  my  back  on  you,"  she  repeated. 

"  Well,  now  that  I  have  said  good-morning  .  .  ." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  moved  as  though  to  go  back. 

"  Stay !  "  she  entreated.  "  Walk  a  little  way  with 
me.  Now  that  I  happen  to  have  met  you  .  .  ." 

"  I  came  back  yesterday  ...  I  meant  to  call  on 
you  to-day  or  to-morrow  .  .  ." 

"  Walk  with  me,"  she  said,  almost  entreatingly. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  .  .  ." 

"What  about?" 

"  I  suggested  to  Henri  .  .  ." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath;  there  were  people  pass- 


THE  LATER  LIFE  325, 

ing.  They  were  near  the  Ponds.  She  ceased 
speaking;  and  they  walked  on  silently  .  .  . 

"  I  suggested  to  Henri,"  she  repeated,  at  last, 
"  that  we  should  .  .  ." 

The  word  died  away  on  her  lips,  but  he  under- 
stood. They  were  both  silent,  both  walked  on 
without  speaking.  He  led  the  way;  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  they  were  making  for  a  goal,  she  knew 
not  where,  which  he  would  know  .  .  . 

At  last,  she  said: 

'*  I  wanted  ...  as  you  are  our  friend  ...  to 
tell  you  .  .  ." 

He  was  determined  to  make  her  say  the  word : 

"  You  suggested  what?  " 

"  That  we  should  be  divorced  .  .  ." 

They  walked  on  for  some  minutes.  Suddenly, 
round  about  her,  she  saw  the  dunes,  the  distant  sea, 
the  sea  which  she  had  divined  the  night  before,  over 
which  the  pale  gleams,  the  lightning-flashes  had  re- 
vealed themselves.  Now,  the  sky  overhead  was 
revealed,  a  vague  opal,  with  white  clouds  curling 
like  steam  .  .  . 

"  I  suggested  that  we  should  be  divorced,"  she 
repeated. 

He  drew  a  breath,  in  the  salt  breath  of  the  sea, 
even  as  he  had  breathed  in  the  Alps,  when  contem- 
plating those  ice-bound  horizons.  And  he  remem- 
bered .  .  .  that  vision  .  .  .  and  the  yearning  .  .  . 
for  the  one  soul  .  .  .  the  meeting  with  which  would 


326  THE  LATER  LIFE 

have  been  a  consolation  amid  the  constant  disap- 
pointment encountered  with  the  many  souls,  the 
thousands  .  .  .  And  a  swift,  keen  hope  seemed  to 
flash  before  him  .  .  .  not  only  of  having  found  at 
last  ...  in  silence  .  .  .  but  of  venturing  to  utter 
it  ...  once ;  and  so  keen,  so  dazzling  was  the  hope 
that  at  first  he  did  not  hear  her  say : 

"  But  Henri  .  .  .  thinks  it  is  better  .  .  . 
not  .  .  ." 

*'What?"  he  asked,  as  though  deaf,  as  though 
blind. 

She  repeated: 

"  Henri  thinks  it  is  better  not.  .  .  .  Because  of 
our  boy  ...  of  Addie  .  .  ." 

The  keen  hope  had  flashed  for  only  a  second, 
swiftly,  with  its  dizzying  rays  .  .  . 

Uttered  it  would  never  be  ...  To  have  found  in 
silence:  alas,  that  was  all  illusion  ...  a  dream 
.  .  .  when  one  is  very  young  .  .  . 

"  He  is  right,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Is  he  right?"  she  asked,  sadly.  And,  more 
firmly,  she  repeated,  "  Yes,  he  is  right  ..."  ' 

"  I  should  have  been  sorry  .  .  .  for  Addie's 
sake,"  he  said. 

'  Yes,"  she  repeated,  as  though  in  a  trance.  "  I 
should  have  been  sorry  for  Addie's  sake.  But  I  had 
thought  that  I  should  be  able  to  live  at  last  —  my 
God,  at  last!  —  in  absolute  truth  and  sincerity  .  .  . 


THE  LATER  LIFE  327 

and  not  In  a  narrow  ring  of  convention,  not  in  terror 
of  people  and  what  they  may  think  absurd  and  can- 
not understand  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

"And  ...   ?  "  he  asked. 

"  And  ...  in  that  thought,  in  that  hope  .  .  . 
I  had  forgotten  my  boy.  And  yet  he  is  the  reality  I  " 

"  And  yet  he  ...  is  the  reality." 

"  And  now  I  am  sacrificing  .  .  .  the  dream  .  .  . 
the  illusion  ...  to  him." 

'  Yes  .  .  .  the     dream  ...  the     illusion,"     he 
said,  with  a  smile  that  was  full  of  pain. 

"  It    hurts    me !  "    she    confessed,    with    a    sob. 

'  Yesterday  —  oh,  only  yesterday,  last  night !  —  I 

thought  that  the  dream,  the  illusion  .  .  .  was  truth 

.  .  .  But  what  for  young  people  can  be  a  dream,  an 

illusion  ...  which  comes  true  .  .  ." 

"  Is  at  our  age  .  .  ." 

"Absurd?"  she  asked,  still  wavering. 

"  Not  absurd  perhaps  .  .  .  but  impossible.  We 
go  bent  under  too  heavy  a  burden  of  the  past  to  per- 
mit ourselves  youthful  dreams  and  illusions.  We 
no  longer  have  any  right  .  .  .  even  to  mem- 
ories .  .  ." 

"  I  have  some  .  .  .  from  my  childhood,"  she 
stammered,  vaguely. 

'  There  are  no  memories  left  for  us,"  he  said, 
gently,  with  his  smile  that  was  full  of  pain. 

"  No,  there  are  none  left  for  us,"  she  repeated. 


328  THE  LATER  LIFE 

And  she  confessed,  "  I  have  dreamed  .  .  .  and 
thought  .  .  .  too  late.  I  ...  I  have  begun  to 
live  too  late  .  .  ." 

"  I,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  .  .  .  that  I  had  lived; 
but  I  have  done  nothing  .  .  .  but  seek  .  .  ." 

"You  never  found?" 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  almost.  But,  when  I  had  found 
...  I  was  not  allowed  to  put  out  my  hand  .  .  ." 

"  Because  ...  of  the  past?  "  she  asked,  softly. 

"  And  of  the  present.  Because  of  what  is  and 
has  younger,  fresher  rights  than  mine  .  .  .  which 
are  no  rights  .  .  .  but  the  forbidden  illusions  of  an 
old  man  .  .  ." 

"  Not  old  .  .  ." 

"  Older  every  day.  He  alone  is  in  the  prime  of 
life  .  .  .  who  has  found  ...  or  thinks  that  he  has 
found  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  that  is  so,"  she  said;  and  her  voice  sounded 
like  a  wail.  "  I  have  begun  to  live  too  late.  I 
could  have  lived  .  .  .  even  now  .  .  .  perhaps;  but 
it  is  all  too  late.  I  once  told  you  .  .  .  that  I  was 
abdicating  my  youth  .  .  ." 

"  Once,  months  ago  .  .  ." 

"  Since  then,  I  have  thought,  dreamt,  lived  too 
much  .  .  .  not  to  feel  young  .  .  .  for  a  few  mo- 
ments .  .  .  But  it  was  all  an  illusion  .  .  .  and  it  is 
all  too  late  .  .  ." 

They  looked  at  each  other.     He  bowed  his  head, 


THE  LATER  LIFE  329 

in  gentle  acquiescence,  with  his  smile  that  was  full 
of  pain: 

'Yes,  it  is  so,"  he  said;  and  it  was  almost  as 
if  he  were  joking.  "  Come,  let  us  be  strong.  I 
shall  go  on  seeking  .  .  .  and  you  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  have  my  boy!"  she  murmured.  "He 
has  always  comforted  me." 

They  walked  back  slowly  and  took  leave  of  each 
other  at  the  door,  a  friends'  leave-taking. 

14  Will  you  come  again  soon?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  You  know,  you  no 
sooner  see  me  than  I  am  gone  ...  I  may  go  to 
England  in  the  autumn,  to  lecture  on  Peace.  The 
world  is  full  of  mighty  problems;  and  we  ...  we 
are  pigmies  ...  in  the  tiny  worlds  of  our  own 
selves  .  .  ." 

"  Yes  ...  we  are  nothing  .  .  ." 

He  left  her;  she  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of  fare- 
well in  the  pressure  of  his  hand.  She  went  in,  with 
her  head  swimming;  and  her  son  was  there.  And 
she  embraced  him,  as  though  asking  his  forgiveness. 

"  Addie,"  she  said,  softly,  "  Papa  was  right,  Papa 
was  right  ...  I  believe  that  I  now  know  for  cer- 
tain, dear,  that  I  know  for  certain  that  Papa  was 
right  .  .  .  Oh,  Addie,  whatever  I  may  lose  .  .  . 
you  will  not  let  me  lose  you?  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HAD  it  all  been  an  illusion  then?  Was  it  all  for 
nothing? 

The  days  passed  slowly,  one  after  the  other.  She 
saw  Van  Vreeswijck  and  felt  for  him,  their  friend, 
in  his  silent  grief;  she  bade  good-bye  to  Bertha  and 
her  children.  She  knew  that  Van  der  Welcke  had 
seen  Marianne  once  more  before  her  departure;  and 
her  heart  was  full  of  pity  for  them  both. 

Had  it  all  been  an  illusion  then,  this  world  of 
feeling,  this  little  world  of  her  own  self?  Oh,  he 
was  going  to  England,  to  lecture  on  Peace;  for  him 
there  were  always  those  mighty  problems  which  con- 
soled him  for  the  smallness  of  that  little  world  of 
self!  But  she,  had  she  lost  everything,  now  that 
the  illusion  no  longer  shone  before  her,  now  that  the 
magic  cities  had  fallen  to  pieces,  now  that  everything 
had  become  very  dreary  in  the  disenchantment  and! 
self-reproach  of  realizing  that  she  had  not  loved  her 
son  enough,  that  she  had  not  loved  him  as  well  as 
his  father  loved  him,  not  as  well  as  she  had  loved 
the  stranger,  the  friend  who  had  taught  her  to 
live?  .  .  . 

Had  she  lost  everything  then?  Now,  ah  now, 
she  was  really  old,  grey-haired;  now  her  eye  was  no 
longer  bright,  her  step  no  longer  brisk;  now  it  was 

330 


THE  LATER  LIFE  331 

really  all  over  and  it  was  over  forever  .  .  .  But 
had  she  lost  everything  then?  This  was  what  she 
often  asked  herself  in  the  days  that  followed,  those 
days  of  sadness,  sadness  for  herself,  for  him,  for  her 
son,  for  her  husband,  for  the  girl  whom  she  loved 
too  .  .  .  for  all  those  people,  for  all  her  life  .  .  . 
And  what  of  the  great  questions,  the  mighty  pro- 
blems of  life  ?  Ah,  they  no  longer  stood  out  before 
her,  now  that  he  who  had  called  her  attention  to 
them  had  gone  straight  towards  those  mighty  pro- 
blems as  to  the  towers  of  the  greater  life !  To  her 
they  seemed  infinitely  remote,  shadowy  cities  on  a 
far  horizon  behind  her  own  shattered  cities  of  fair 
translucent  hopes  .  .  .  Had  she  then  lost  her  inter- 
est in  all  those  things  ?  And,  having  lost  that  inter- 
est, did  she  no  longer  care  for  her  own  development, 
for  books,  nature,  art?  Was  the  life  that  she  had 
been  living  all  illusion,  a  dream-life  of  love,  lived 
under  his  influence,  lived  under  his  compelling  eyes? 
Yes,  that  was  how  it  had  been,  that  was  how  she 
would  have  to  acknowledge  it  to  herself  I  ...  That 
was  how  it  was!  .  .  .  That  was  how  it  was!  .  .  . 
Only  with  his  eyes  upon  her  had  she  felt  herself  born 
again  .  .  .  born  again  from  her  childhood  onwards 
.  .  .  until  she  had  once  more  conjured  up  the  fairy- 
vision  of  the  little  girl  with  the  red  flowers  on  her 
temples  who  ran  over  the  boulders  in  the  river  under 
the  spreading  tropical  leaves,  beckoning  the  wonder- 
ing little  brothers  .  .  .  And  she,  a  middle-aged 


332  THE  LATER  LIFE 

woman,  had  grown  into  a  girl  who  dreamed  the 
shimmering  dreams  that  were  wafted  along  rainbow 
paths  towards  the  distant  clouds  high  in  the  heavens 
...  In  her  maturity,  she  had  developed  herself  hur- 
riedly, as  though  afraid  of  being  too  late,  into  a 
thinking,  feeling,  loving  woman  .  .  .  She  had  been 
sincere  in  that  new,  hurried  life;  but  it  had  been 
nothing  more  than  illusion  and  illusion  alone,  the  il- 
lusion of  a  woman  who  felt  herself  growing  old 
without  ever,  ever  having  lived  .  .  . 

But,  though  it  had  all  been  illusion,  was  illusion 
nothing  then?  ...  Or  was  illusion  indeed  some- 
thing, something  of  no  great  account?  And,  even 
though  she  had  lived  only  illusion,  illusion  under  the 
compelling  eyes  of  the  man  whom  she  loved,  feeling 
love  for  the  first  and  only  time,  under  the  brooding, 
anguished  eyes  of  that  thinker  and  seeker,  had  she 
not  lived  then,  had  she  not  lived  then? 

Yes,  she  had:  she  had  lived,  in  the  way  in  which 
a  woman  like  herself  —  a  woman  who  had  never 
felt  simply  and  sincerely  except  as  a  child  in  those 
far-off  childish  days,  a  woman  whose  life  had  been 
nothing  but  artificiality  and  failure  —  could  live 
again,  only  later  still,  older  still,  old  almost  and 
finished;  she  had  lived  in  illusions,  in  a  fleeting  il- 
lusion, which  just  for  one  moment  she  had  tried  to 
grasp,  that  day,  now  a  few  months  ago  .  .  . 

She  shook  her  head,  her  grey  head;  she  was  no 


THE  LATER  LIFE  333 

longer  blinded ;  she  saw :  she  saw  that  it  could  never 
have  been  .  .  . 

Yet  she  felt  that  they  had  —  both  of  them  — 
lived  the  illusion  —  both  of  them  —  for  a  little 
while  .  .  . 

And  was  nothing  left  of  it? 

Now  that  the  long  dreary  days  of  sadness  were 
drawing  on,  she  saw:  she  saw  that  there  was  indeed 
something  left,  that  a  ray  of  light  remained  in  her 
small  soul,  which  had  only  been  able  to  live  like  that, 
very  late;  for  she  saw  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  repin- 
ing, there  was  still  gratitude  .  .  . 

Yes,  she  was  grateful,  for  she  had  lived,  even 
though  everything  had  been  illusion,  the  late  blos- 
soming of  ephemeral  dream-flowers  .  .  . 

And  now  —  when  she  felt  that  strange  question 
rise  in  her  soul :  is  this  life,  this  futile,  endless  round, 
or  is  there  ...  is  there  anything  else?  When  she 
felt  that  bewildering,  passionate  doubt  —  then  she 
was  conscious,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  with  a  throb 
of  gratitude,  that  there  was  something  else  .  .  . 

Illusion,  yes,  only  illusion,  without  which  there  is 
no  life. 


THE   END 


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